The front desk receptionist knocked at 6:15 AM, looking apologetic. “Mrs. Harris? A call from Central Hospital.”

The voice on the other end was clipped, professional. “Is this Shirley Harris? Mother of Clara Rakes? Your daughter has been admitted. She fell down the stairs. We need you to come in.”

Fell down the stairs.

The lie was so transparent it was almost insulting. My military training kicked in immediately. I knew the patterns. Domestic violence victims always fell. They always walked into doors. They were always clumsy.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

But I couldn’t just walk out. Adam had strict instructions: Shirley is confused. She wanders. Do not let her leave.

I made one call.

“Get me Dr. Pete Rodriguez, Chief of Staff.”

A minute later, a familiar baritone, rough with age and cigarettes, filled my ear. “This is Rodriguez.”

“Pete. It’s Shirley Harris.”