“A cemetery?”
“Family graves.”
“That should complicate commercial development.”
“It did.”
Lena understood immediately.
“Meaning Weston Creek had a problem.”
Michael nodded.
“They needed our parcel for the access road.”
“Who contacted Sarah?”
“A man named David Rourke.”
Lena knew that name too.
David Rourke was Weston Creek’s regional acquisitions director.
She stood.
“I’ll be back.”
Michael caught her arm with his good hand.
“Detective.”
She turned.
“My daughter heard something, didn’t she?”
Lena did not lie.
“Yes.”
Michael’s face crumpled.
“She was alone through all of this.”
“She kept your babies alive.”
Michael closed his eyes.
“I was supposed to be there.”
Sarah’s condition worsened through the evening.
The infection had spread into her bloodstream.
Dr. Shah believed retained placental tissue following the difficult delivery had caused severe endometritis and septic shock.
But there was another problem.
Sarah had also suffered a head injury.
Someone—or something—had struck her near the temple.
It might have happened when she collapsed.
Or it might not.
Ethan found Michael outside the ICU later that night.
His broken arm had been immobilized. He should have been resting.
Instead he stood at the glass, staring at Sarah through the window.
“She looks dead.”
“She isn’t.”
Michael did not look away.
“What are her chances?”
“She’s very sick.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only honest one I have.”
Michael pressed his forehead against the glass.
“She had headaches after the twins were born.”
Ethan turned.
“How bad?”
“She kept saying it felt like pressure.”
“Did she tell her obstetrician?”
“I think so.”
“Any fever?”
“She said she was cold all the time.”
Ethan frowned.
“When did you last speak to her?”
“Thursday afternoon.”
“Before she collapsed?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Michael thought.
“She said somebody had come to the house.”
