The call comes from a hospice nurse I've never met.
"Ms. Carter? This is Patricia from St. Mary's Palliative Care. Victoria Brooks has been asking for you. She's, well, she doesn't have much time left. Days, maybe hours. She's insistent that she needs to speak with you before she passes."
I'm standing in Liam's kitchen, coffee cup halfway to my mouth, trying to process this information. Victoria. The woman who orchestrated my destruction. Who turned her own daughter into a weapon. Who spent her final healthy months trying to ruin me.
Now she's dying and wants to see me.
"I'll think about it," I say.
"She's quite agitated. Keeps saying she has information you need. That you'll regret it if you don't come." Patricia sounds tired. "I'm not trying to pressure you, but she's making herself
