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I can almost see the animosity, the tension, between us. Still holding Mom’s hand, I try to position myself in front of her, blocking his view. I can’t let him hear the silence. All the more reason I have to keep talking.

“And now you’ll never know how she really felt, will you?” I say. I’m taunting him, tormenting him, as the seconds tick away. “Do you know her mother forced her to marry Ray? Your Dorie told me that. And she was so upset when she got the word that you-died-she cried for weeks. Even little Gaylen remembers. You have it all wrong.”

For the first moment, I see him falter. He blinks, take a hesitant step backward. He doesn’t answer.

“I know where Gaylen is,” I say. “Without me, you’ll never find her. And Dorinda will never tell you. You ruined her life-it’s not Dorie who ruined yours. You destroyed your own family with your selfishness and jealousy. Because you didn’t take the time to understand the girl you said you loved.”

I’m breathing hard, trying to stay in control. If I can make this deal, offer him his daughter back, maybe I’ll get my mother back. It’s my only play.

“Two minutes,” he says, pointing to the pills. “Pick those up. And I’ll find Gaylen myself, thank you very much for telling me she’s around here. And as for your mother dear, I would say-” he glances dramatically at his chunky silver watch “-I would say it’s possible my watch is wrong.”

I whirl to look at Mother, terrifyingly peaceful, quieter than quiet. Beyond asleep.

She doesn’t even blink when all hell breaks loose.

Klaxons, blaring. Alarms, screaming. A synthetic voice blasts through the room, loudspeakers repeating “Code Blue, Code Blue, Code Blue.” CC Hardesty wheels, staggering backward, as the door flies open, and a doctor, a team of doctors and nurses, all in white, careen a heavily laden crash cart into the little room.

With a shattering of glass and instruments clattering to the floor, the cart collides, crashes, directly into CC, propelling him across the room and toward Mom’s bed. I leap up, and I’m yelling, yelling, yelling as I spin the rolling bed table, hard as I can, hard as I can, hoping I smash him in the chest or neck or head or anywhere, anywhere that will bring him down.

I see him slide down the side of Mom’s bed. His fingers claw down the pink quilt. The yellow and white capsules roll, spilling away, bouncing onto the floor. Hardesty’s collapsed, motionless as Mom. He’s a white-uniformed ghost, returned from the dead. And now-

Now, I’m explaining, fast as I can, clearly as I can, exactly what happened. I grab the nearest doctor, his stethoscope almost swinging into my face as I corral him into action. “Call security, the cops,” I demand. “He’s given Mom some sort of, of overdose.” I know I have to be calm. I won’t even calculate about how much time has gone by.

I sweep up the yellow and white capsules from the floor, scooping so hard I burn my hand on the rug, until they’re once again in my palm, and display them, quivering, to the still-confused physician. “They looked like these,” I say. “Do something. Now. Please.”

Three blue-jacketed hulks of hospital security guards have joined the hubbub in the now-crowded room. They’re lifting Hardesty like a rubbery rag doll, his arms and legs not responding to their commands.

“Move it,” one orders. “You’re done.” Hardesty’s dazed, still staggering. I see handcuffs click into place

Two nurses hover over Mom, taking her pulse, listening to her breathing.

“Here’s the problem,” one says. She’s holding up the dangling wires of Mom’s heart-rate monitor. “These had come off her finger somehow. No wonder we weren’t getting any vitals from her. We thought she’d flatlined.” The nurse puts the thick black band back into place around Mom’s finger. “Wonder how that happened?”

Doctors have called in a stretcher. One, two, three, they lift Mom from her bed. The stretcher is already moving out of the room by the time she’s settled. I’m stationed beside it, not leaving her side.

“Well, that was me, “I explain. We’re racing down the hall, me with one hand clamped to Mom’s stretcher. Her face is gray, or pale. All wrong.

“CC told me he’d disconnected the nurse call button. But I knew Mom’s monitor was still hooked up. So I grabbed her hand and gradually slipped off the wires. He never noticed the beeping had stopped. And as soon as you realized there was no signal…I knew you’d come. And I hoped it would be soon enough.”

We arrive at a wide silver elevator. A grim-faced doctor slams a key card though an emergency switch, and I hear the elevator on the way.

“You’ll need to wait down here, Miz McNally,” the doctor says.

“But-”

“Someone will be with you,” she interrupts. “Just let us do our work.”

I look at Mom, still, small, and deep in a drug-dazed stupor. I briefly calculate how long it actually took for them to realize there were no longer peaks and valleys in her heartbeat and respiration. Almost too long. I touch her hand. She doesn’t move.

The elevator doors slide open. And she’s gone.

CHAPTER 23

“Got your earpiece in? Can you hear the control room? Is anything happening at the gates?” Franklin’s shading his eyes with a hand as he squints across the parking lot. The imposing entrance gates of the women’s prison remain closed. They’re bars of wrought iron, topped with razor wire. Behind them, a concrete walkway leads to bolted wood double doors. Also closed. Two blue-uniformed guards are stationed in front of them, arms crossed over their chests, staring at the Channel 3 live shot van we’ve set up on a strip of grass on the public side of the gates. We’ve got one camera focused on the prison doors and one facing me.

“We’re taking this live as soon as she walks out,” Franklin says, for about the fifth time. He looks at his watch yet again. “You set? They’re gonna come through that door, and head straight for Will’s car.”

“I’m set, Franko,” I say. “And no matter how many times you look at your watch, it won’t make it happen any faster. The control room’s watching the front door. They’ll take the shot when they see her on camera and cue me through my earpiece. I can hear them. I’m set.”

I puff out a stream of air, channeling calm. Just three days ago, Mom and I were almost killed by a revenge-obsessed Romeo. Now, CC Hardesty is behind bars, no bail. Oscar Ortega himself had appeared in court, asking the judge to charge Hardesty with the murder of Ray Sweeney, vacate Dorinda’s conviction, and let her go free. Gaylen had sobbed through the entire proceeding. Will Easterly, red eyed and even more gaunt than usual, had actually-one of the few times I’d ever seen him do it-smiled when Judge G. West Saltonstall made his rulings. Tek Mattheissen was nowhere to be seen.

This morning Franklin and I are running on caffeine and adrenaline. We’d stayed up almost all night writing and editing our exclusive story. Part one of “Charlie’s Crusade: Justice for Dorinda” is going to hit the air tonight. Dorinda and Gaylen, who have promised to talk with us exclusively, will be in part two. But for tonight we have a touching interview with Will, admitting his alcoholism and his ineffective job as defense attorney, and dramatic “we told you so” bombast from Oliver Rankin. Thanks to Poppy Morency, we’re using new video of inside the Sweeney house, including some admittedly tabloid-worthy footage of the basement stairs. We’ve even got a brief interview with Joe B. from the nursing home. We’re showing the alibi video of Dorinda in the meds room-which turned out to be authentic, of course-and the time sheets, which were authentic, too. Plus that age-progression yearbook photo of the prom queen and her court. The simulated face that launched a real-life murder charge.