By 3:30 a.m., I knew there was no emergency. No admission under Chloe’s name. No surgeon waiting. No urgent procedure. Then I checked the location history on the shared family account I had been paying for years. Chloe’s phone wasn’t anywhere near St. Aldric General. It was across town, near an expensive steakhouse that stayed open late on weekends.
At 4:30, I sat in my car across from that restaurant and watched through the front windows. Chloe was alive, laughing, and holding a champagne glass. Mom sat beside her. Dad was there too, along with my brother and two cousins. They were celebrating something. My sister, who had supposedly been hours from death, was cutting into a steak while my mother kept checking her phone for my transfer.
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