"Mommy's coming."
By the time I reached St.
Catherine's Children's Hospital, the sun was rising.
The sky over Dallas was turning pale orange.
But I didn't notice.
I ran through the emergency entrance.
"Sarah Mitchell?"
A nurse approached.
I nodded.
"I'm Ethan's mother."
Her expression changed.
"I'm sorry."
Those two words nearly destroyed me.
"Where is he?"
"ICU."
I followed her down the corridor.
Halfway there, a pediatric surgeon stopped me.
"Mrs.
Mitchell?"
"Yes."
"I'm Dr.
Reynolds."
He spoke gently.
Too gently.
"Your son is alive."
I closed my eyes.
Alive.
That was enough for one second.
Then he continued.
"But he suffered serious injuries."
My throat tightened.
"What kind?"
The doctor hesitated.
"He has several bruised ribs, a fractured wrist, significant internal trauma, and signs that at least some of his injuries may not have happened tonight."
I stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
"It means some injuries appear older."
The hallway seemed to tilt.
Older.
Not one accident.
Not one terrible night.
Something had been happening before.
For how long?
"Who brought him here?"
"A neighbor."
"Where was he found?"
The doctor looked toward a man standing several feet away.
A detective.
Dark jacket.
Notebook in hand.
He approached.
"Mrs.
Mitchell, I'm Detective Daniel Carter."
"Who hurt my son?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"Your son was found unconscious behind your mother's house."
My stomach dropped.
"Behind the house?"
"Near a backyard shed."
I knew the shed.
Everyone did.
It stood at the back of my mother's property.
Old wood.
Rusty hinges.
A heavy padlock.
My mother had always called it the storage shed.
But Ethan had mentioned it before.
Three weeks earlier, during a video call, he had asked me something strange.
"Mommy?"
