Chapter 2: The Cost of Living

I scrubbed my hands until the skin was raw, but I could still smell the house on me. The hospital bathroom soap smelled like fake lavender and rubbing alcohol, a violent contrast to the wet-wool stench of Aunt Clara’s foyer. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. There was a smudge of gray dust on my jawline. I rubbed it away, thinking of the gleam I’d left behind in the crawlspace.

I hadn't been able to reach it. The hole was too small, the rot too unstable, and the time too short. I’d marked the spot with a strip of blue painter’s tape and fled, driving twenty miles an hour over the limit to get here before visiting hours ended.

I dried my hands on a paper towel that felt like sandpaper and pushed open the door to Room 412.

The air in here was pressurized and freezing. Leo was asleep, his small body barely making a dent in the hospital bed. He looked translucent, the blue veins in his eyelids visible beneath the skin. A Lego X-Wing fighter sat half-assembled on the tray table.

"Ms. Sterling?"

I turned. Dr. Patel stood in the doorway, holding a tablet. She didn't look up from the screen.

"How are his counts?" I asked, though the set of her shoulders told me everything.

"They’re trending down again," she said, finally meeting my eyes. "The chemo is buying us time, Sarah, but it’s expensive time. And it’s running out. We need to start looking seriously at a bone marrow transplant."

"I know," I said. "I’m getting tested. His father isn’t in the picture, but I’ll find—"

"You’re not a match," she interrupted gently. "We ran your markers last week. You share fifty percent of his DNA, obviously, but the HLA markers... they’re complex. We need a closer match. Siblings are best, but..."

"He’s an only child."

"Then we look at extended family," she said. "Aunts, uncles. Grandparents."

The door swung open before I could answer.

The temperature in the room didn't drop, but it felt like it did. Edith Sterling walked in, wearing a cream cashmere coat that probably cost more than my car. Her silver hair was coiffed into an indestructible helmet of elegance.

"Mother," I said. The word always tasted like ash.

"Sarah." She didn't look at me. She went straight to the bed, placing a manicured hand on the rail near Leo’s foot. "How is our boy?"

"He’s sleeping," I said, stepping between her and the doctor. "Dr. Patel was just leaving."

Edith turned her gaze on the doctor. It was the same look she used on waiters who brought the wrong wine—polite, expectant, and utterly terrifying. "Is the bill settled for the next round, Doctor?"

"The finance office handles that, Mrs. Sterling," Dr. Patel said, backing toward the door. "I just treat the patient."

When the door clicked shut, the silence stretched tight. Edith reached into her immaculate Hermès bag and pulled out a pale blue envelope. She held it out to me.

"The transfer didn't go through," she said smoothly. "Something about a bank holiday. So I brought a check."

I stared at the envelope. Inside was the money that would keep the IVs dripping, the monitors beeping, the breath moving in and out of my son’s lungs. It was salvation.

It was a leash.

"Thank you," I said, reaching for it.

She didn't let go. Her fingers tightened on the paper, just enough to stop me from taking it. I looked up, meeting her eyes. They were a pale, icy blue—eyes I didn’t have. Eyes Leo didn’t have.

"The house needs to be empty by the end of the month, Sarah," she said. "The developers are impatient. Are we on schedule?"

"I cleared the foyer today," I said, feeling the phantom grit under my fingernails. "I’m starting the living room tomorrow."

"Good." She smiled, but it didn't reach those cold eyes. "You know how Clara was. She hid things. Filthy things. I don't want any surprises."

"No surprises," I lied. I thought of the gold in the floor.

She released the envelope. I tucked it into my pocket, the sharp corner digging into my hip.

Edith leaned in, smoothing the collar of my flannel shirt. Her perfume—expensive rose and old money—filled my nose, choking me.

"Be a good girl, Sarah," she whispered, her thumb pressing against my collarbone. "Remember who keeps you alive."