Chapter 2

"What did you say to him yesterday?"

Victoria’s call came in again. This time, I didn’t hang up.

I needed to know what cards she still held.

"I didn’t say anything."

"He told me you mentioned a genetic match. How would you know about that?"

I leaned against the tiled wall in the restroom, my voice steady.

"He let it slip himself."

"He also said you said some very strange things. Skylar, have you been listening to rumors?"

"What rumors?"

"Some people say the Victor family is using you. That’s nonsense. Ethan is a respectable man, his family runs a pharmaceutical group—"

"So, how much did you take?"

Silence on her end for two seconds.

"Skylar, why do you always think that about Mom?"

"Just tell me."

Her tone sharpened a little, like I’d stepped on her tail. "Skylar, after your dad passed, I was left to shoulder everything! You ran off for two years, leaving me to handle the mortgage and utilities alone. The Victor family is just being charitable—"

"You call selling my medical report to someone else 'charitable'?"

"Who sold it? Who sold it!" Her voice became shrill. "Your dad asked me to keep it for you! Ethan came asking about you, and I was just showing concern—"

"You even told him which hospital I had my check-ups at."

"That was—"

"Thyroid function, complete blood count, full immune panel. And HLA typing. Victoria, ordinary people don't get HLA tests unless it's for an organ or bone marrow transplant."

The breathing on the other end caught. A long silence followed.

She switched her tone, softening, easing, like she’d put on a different mask.

"Skylar, even if I did something wrong, that girl is really dying. I saw her photos, she’s only twenty-three, just skin and bones—"

"It has nothing to do with me."

"Can't you just go for a match confirmation? It’s just a simple blood draw—"

"That’s what you told me last time."

The words slipped out, and I immediately clamped my mouth shut.

"Last time? What last time?"

"Nothing."

"Skylar, you've been talking stranger and stranger lately. 'Last life,' 'last time'—"

"I’m hanging up."

I turned off my phone and stood at the sink for two minutes.

My knuckles were turning white. I’d let it slip again. Every time I faced these two, memories from my last life surged out, uncontrollable.

In the afternoon, Harper returned from outside, her face troubled.

"Skylar, there’s a woman downstairs. She says she’s your mother."

"She’s not."

"She was crying really hard. Security asked if she wanted them to call the police, and she said her daughter hadn't come home in two years, and she just wanted to see her."

I walked to the window.

Victoria stood at the office building entrance. Plain dress, no makeup, red-rimmed eyes, clutching an old worn bag.

A forty-seven-year-old woman, her hair perfectly neat, her scarf tucked into her collar, exposing only a sliver of her collarbone.

Light makeup, simple clothes—a perfect picture of a wronged, devoted mother.

She adjusted her glasses, borrowed a tissue from a passerby to wipe her tears, and thanked them three times as they handed it to her.

Such a good performance.

"Keep an eye on her for me," I told Harper. "See who she contacts."

Harper hesitated. "She really isn't your mom?"

"My mom died nineteen years ago."

Harper didn’t ask again.

I slipped out the back door of the office building and hid in the convenience store across the street. Through the glass, I saw Victoria pull out her phone.

The call lasted less than thirty seconds. After hanging up, she glanced up at the office building, and her lips curved slightly.

Not the kind of smile someone genuinely crying would have.

Ten minutes later, the black car appeared at the intersection.

Ethan got out of the car and walked to her side. They exchanged a few words.

He handed her an envelope. Victoria took it, looked down at it, and smiled.

She accepted the envelope much faster than she’d wiped away her tears.

I pulled out my phone and took a photo. Time, location, both their faces.

Harper sent me a message: "She left, with another guy. Do you know him?"

"Yes."

"Should you call the police?"

"Not yet."

Back at the office, a brown envelope sat on my desk. Not a delivery. Someone had placed it there directly while I was out.

I tore it open. A hospital report. Not mine.

Chloe's. Her white blood cell count was alarmingly low. Platelets almost zero. A note was attached at the end.

"Skylar, she only has two months left. You are her only hope."

On the back was another small line: "If you don't come, her blood is on your hands."

Harper leaned over. "What is it?"

I flipped the note over and showed her the last line.

She stared at it for five seconds.

"Is that a threat, seriously?"