Catherine Harrington.
The name pulsed on the screen like a heartbeat.
Sloane stared at it for a full second, two, three. Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t let herself hope. Not really.
Then she answered.
“Hey.”
Her voice cracked around the word. It was too soft, too vulnerable.
A pause on the other end. Then Catherine’s voice came, rough-edged and low, like it had been scraped over too many emotions in too short a time.
“Can you come?”
That was it. No explanations. No apologies. Just those three words.
Sloane swallowed hard. The noise of her own heartbeat roared in her ears.
“Yeah,” she whispered, already moving. “I’m on my way.”
The halls of Harrington Memorial were quieter at night, the buzz of urgency faded into murmurs and footsteps on polished floors. Sloane walked like she belonged, her boots striking the linoleum with each determined step. The receptionist barely looked up when she passed, either too tired to care or already warned by someone upstairs.
She didn’t know what she expected. A guarded Catherine? A half-hearted conversation through gritted teeth?
She didn’t expect the way her chest tightened when she stepped through the door and saw her.
Catherine was sitting upright in bed, back supported by a stack of pillows, the blue of the hospital gown sharp against her pale skin. Her hair was pulled back into a loose knot. Her blue eyes were dark and tired, but they were open. And they were on her.
They didn’t speak at first.
Sloane stood at the threshold like a ghost, her breath caught between fear and something dangerously close to hope.
Catherine blinked, then swallowed. Her lips parted like she meant to speak, but the words didn’t come.
Sloane stepped forward. She walked slowly, like the room was made of glass, and sat in the chair at Catherine’s bedside. Their knees nearly touched.
Sloane looked at her. Really looked.
There were bruises shadowing Catherine’s jawline, a healing gash near her hairline, and gauze taped along the inside of one arm. But it wasn’t the injuries that undid her. It was the softness.
Catherine looked tired. But she also looked open in a way Sloane had never seen. Raw. Unmasked.
Catherine cleared her throat first. “You came.”
Sloane exhaled a quiet, humorless laugh. “You asked.”
They sat in silence, the monitor beeping beside them like punctuation.
“I thought…” Catherine started, then stopped. Her hand clenched the edge of the blanket. “I thought you didn’t come because I wasn’t worth it.”
Sloane blinked. “What?”
Catherine’s eyes didn’t meet hers. “You didn’t call. You didn’t come. I thought it was over.”
Sloane’s mouth fell open. She shook her head, pain and fury swirling in her chest. “Catherine, your mother told me you didn’t want to see me. That you needed space. That it wasn’t my place.”
Catherine’s head snapped up.
