Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

Skye

R ight after purging my old life, I sat against the bathroom door, my legs curled to my chest and thought about my new life. I had one option: Love it or leave it. My tears gave me strength to go forward—to stay here with my beloved husband and daughter. Each day I've grown stronger, more attached to my amazing Maddie.

Tonight I had dinner with her—a first—and every minute was special. Full of chatter and laughter. Questions and answers. Joy. In conjunction with her unit on food and nutrition, I taught her how to say all of the things we were eating in French. My brilliant girl soaked in the words like a sponge. After dinner, I put her to bed and at last read her Madeline , with the two of us alternating pages. Now, with Maddie fast asleep upstairs, I'm back at the kitchen island, my laptop open on the counter. My fingertips dancing across the keyboard, I google her: Kayla Phillips . Know your nemesis , I learned in a grad course on crime reporting. For all I know, she is the one who tried to kill me. Take me away from Finn and Maddie so she could move in.

The first few entries confirm her privileged upbringing, impeccable education, and illustrious career. That doesn't stop me. People aren't always who they say they are. I, of all people, should know that. The investigative journalist in me surfaces. Dig deep, then dig deeper.

On a hunch, I google: Yale University, Class of 2006 . An alphabetical list of graduates comes up. I scan it quickly. Kayla Phillips isn't listed. Already I feel adrenaline rising in me like I used to when I uncovered a story. My fingers are itching.

Following my instincts, I type: Kayla Phillips/Yale in the search bar.

A single entry comes up. The Yale Daily News dating back fifteen years. I click on the link. The headline: Legacy Letdown.

Kayla Phillips, the daughter of wealthy film financier and Yale alumni, Stanton Phillips, was ousted from the university this week on the grounds of unlawful possession, use, and distribution of illicit substances. The stunning announcement comes just after Ms. Phillips was caught last month in a swank New York City hotel lounge snorting cocaine with friends . A spokesperson for Yale president, Richard C. Levin, said that regardless of her status as the daughter of one of the university's most influential donors, she won't be welcome back this fall. He cited Yale's strict no-drug policy.

My pulse speeds up. Anxiously, I type: Kayla Phillips/Sotheby's Institute of Art in London in the search bar. Almost instantly, a flurry of articles from various UK gossip magazines appears. One after another, I click on the headlines.

OK!: American Heiress Drug Bust!

Daily Mirror: Kay-Lo's Rock Star Drug Orgy

Daily Mail: Sotheby's to Kay-Lo: Get Clean or Go Home!

Tatler: American Princess Royally Screws Herself

Party after wild party. An endless orgy of sex, drugs, and booze. I click on the last article and discover that Kayla was indeed expelled from the prestigious academy after having a drugged-out affair with one of her professors and plagiarizing one of his scholarly papers.

A Yalie and art school grad? Bullshit. She's a total fake. But what really alarms me is her reckless, drug-addicted past. Does Finn know about it?

And there's this: Did her drug habit drive her to try to kill me?

Suddenly, the thud of footsteps drums in my ears. I swivel my head.

Finn. He looks stressed out. And tired.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" he asks, trudging my way.

Quickly, I slam my computer shut. I don't want him to know I was stalking his fiancée.

"I hope you don't mind, but I told Rosita to leave early. She wasn't feeling well."

Finn lifts his brows. "What's wrong with her?"

"Just a bad headache. Since she has the weekend off anyway, I thought she should get an early start. A good night's rest."

Finn nods in approval.

"I cooked dinner and put Maddie to bed."

Finn perks up at the mention of his daughter's name. "Did she give you a hard time?"

With a laugh, I tell him that she was perfectly behaved and that we read Madeline together. The delicious memory of her kissing me goodnight is not one I share. Finn seems pleased.

"What are you still doing up?" He glances down at his watch. "It's late."

"I'm not tired and besides, I didn't want to leave Maddie alone in case she woke up." Or had an asthma attack, I add silently.

"Thank you." He folds his long legs over the stool opposite me. "Are there any leftovers? I'm starving."

"I whipped up a spaghetti casserole—enough to feed an army."

"A spaghetti casserole?"

"Uh huh." It was one of the few simple dishes I made in my other life and Finn loved it. "Do you want some?"

"Yeah, that would be great."

I can feel his eyes on me as I prepare a generous plateful and place it in the microwave. When the electronic oven dings, I return to the island with the heated up pasta.

"Here you go." I set the plate down on the counter along with a fork and tablespoon. Then go back to where I was sitting.

Finn's face brightens as he takes a whiff. "This smells so good!" He wastes no time digging in. I watch as he twirls the long strands around his fork, my eyes traveling from his tattooed biceps to his contoured forearms. Then to those magnificent fingers. He puts the bundle of noodles to his lips, slurping it up with gusto, and then gulps it down.

"Wow, this is good. It reminds me of a dish my late wife made." A wistful pause and then he licks a bit of the tomato sauce off his upper lip. A little gesture that sends my libido into a tailspin.

"Thanks for heating some up for me."

"Sure," I mutter as he scoops up another forkful.

"How did Maddie do with her lessons today?"

My heart swells with pride and joy. "Oh, Finn, just wonderfully. She amazes me. So much passion. She's an incredible reader and learner. Far more advanced than I thought."

A melancholy smile crosses his lips. "She takes after her mother."

My heart slams against my chest. I. Am. Her. Mother . The words crawl up my throat and burn on my lips. I want to blurt them out, but instead, I bite my tongue and change the subject.

"How was your dinner with Kayla?" God, I hate saying her name, even more knowing what I know about her.

He languidly twirls another batch of spaghetti around his fork, knitting his brows together in deep thought. He ingests the forkful, swallows, and responds with two monotone syllables.

"O-kay."

The gloom etched on his face says it all.

"I wish she took more interest in Maddie."

Suddenly, the monitor on the counter sounds.

A frightening combination of intense coughing and harsh breathing fills the air.

"Daddy," rasps a little voice in between the wheezing.

Finn drops his fork. "Holy Jesus! Maddie's having an asthma attack."

My heart leaps into my throat as I jump off my seat and follow him upstairs to her room, each of us taking two steps at a time.

My baby!

Not stopping, we cross the threshold of Maddie's room and find her sitting halfway up in bed.

"Daddy," she chokes out, "I can't breathe." She can barely get the words out. Her incessant wheezing frightens me, but I force myself to stay calm. I sit down next to her on the bed and do what any mother would do. I hug and comfort her while Finn frantically retrieves her inhaler.

I mask my alarm as she keeps gasping for air, her narrow shoulders heaving with each desperate breath. Her eyes are watering and she can barely talk.

"Scarlet, it hurts so much."

Her strained words sever me. My heart is cracking. "Sweetie, it's going to be okay."

More wheezing. I can only pray I'm right as Finn hurries to her bedside with the inhaler in his hand. He puts it to Maddie's gaping mouth.

"Breathe in, baby!" His voice is urgent, bordering on despair.

I watch as our little girl inhales and exhales several times, but she's still wheezing. In fact, it's getting worse. Panic grips me like a tentacle.

"Oh my God, Finn. Her lips are turning blue."

"Jesus."

What's more each time she breathes in, her chest concaves. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

Terror fills Finn's voice. "This has never happened before."

On my next pained breath, he scoops her little body into his arms as she holds her inhaler to her mouth.

"Scarlet, call 911. We've got to get her to an emergency room."

My heart galloping, I pull out my cell phone from my jeans pocket and do as he asks. On the third ring, someone picks up. The voice female and nasal.

"911. What's your emergency?"

"Our little girl isn't breathing," I spit out, cognizant of the possessive adjective I've used. Finn, whose attention is focused solely on Maddie, doesn't notice or react. To my horror, the dispatcher asks a series of ridiculous, time-wasting questions. "When did the asthma attack start? Has her color changed? What medicine is she on? Is she able to walk and talk?"

"Please just get someone here!" I want to strangle the person on the other end. Doesn't she realize my little girl's life is at stake? Time is of the essence. I vomit out our address so fast I can only hope she's gotten it right.

Grabbing Maddie's beloved Kangy off her bed, I follow Finn down the stairs, praying an ambulance will be here shortly.

Thankfully, ten minutes later, Maddie is strapped on a gurney, her pale face covered by an oxygen mask. She looks so frail and vulnerable. My heart splinters as fear claws at every nerve in my body.

The three EMTs wheel her to the front door at breakneck speed.

"I'm going with her," shouts Finn, right behind them.

"Finn, I'm coming with you." I need to be there for my child. And I need to be there for him.

My blood turns to ice with a terrifying thought.

Oh God, what if she dies?