Then a private message arrived from my cousin Rebecca.
“Did they really know Maya was in emergency surgery?”
“Yes.”
“Your mom told us she was having a scheduled procedure. She said you were upset they couldn’t visit until tomorrow.”
I stared at the screen.
That explained some of the faces behind Chloe—not the three people I had called repeatedly, but the relatives who had been given a convenient version of events.
I sent Rebecca the message I had sent my parents hours before the party.
“Maya was hit by a truck. She has spinal fractures. They’re taking her into emergency surgery. Please come. I don’t want to do this alone.”
The delivery time was visible.
Rebecca called immediately.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have called you myself.”
I had no energy to comfort her.
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
She accepted that.
“What can I do now?”
