A Dead Woman's Gift

The first thing I saw was white.

White ceiling. White walls. White coat.

I stared at the man leaning over me and said the only thing that made sense. "God?" My voice came out like something that had been run over. "Am I dead? Is this heaven?"

The man laughed softly, and shook his head. "Hospital. You were brought in last night."

I lay there for a moment absorbing that information. Not heaven. Hospital. Somehow both disappointing and a relief at the same time.

He helped me sit up, a young doctor with calm hands and the unbothered energy of someone who had seen far worse than me on a Tuesday night. He checked my blood pressure, shone a light in my eyes, asked me to follow his finger.

I followed his finger and tried to remember last night. The bar. The women. The television screen with Tyler's hand on Lucy's waist. The door with the blind pulled down. Walking backwards in the dark—

My hand flew to my stomach before the thought even finished.

The doctor saw it. He stopped what he was doing and looked at me. "The baby is fine. I want you to hear that first."

The breath I let out embarrassed me. I didn't care.

"However." He sat down on the stool beside the bed and folded his hands, and I knew that posture. That was the posture of a conversation I wasn't going to enjoy. "We ran your bloods when you came in. There was an unusual amount of alcohol in your system." He held my gaze steadily. "I have to ask you directly — was that deliberate?”

"No." The word came out hard and immediate, the most certain I'd been about anything in weeks. "Never. I would never—" I stopped. Steadied my voice. "It was a bad night. A very bad night. But I would never do anything to hurt this baby. Not ever.”

He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded once, satisfied, and handed me a cup of water. "Drink that slowly.”

I drank it like I hadn't seen water in days, which was not far from the truth.

"The man who brought you in last night," the doctor said, making a note on his clipboard, "said you walked into the path of his vehicle. He's been here since last night. He should be back any minute — I'd suggest waiting for him before you—”

"I'm fine." I was already swinging my legs off the bed.

"Miss—"

"I'm fine." The floor was cold through my socks. I looked around for my shoes, found them under the chair, and reached for them. The room tilted very slightly when I bent down. I ignored it. "Thank you. Really. But I need to go."

"At least let us bring you something to eat before—”

*Food.* The word hit me somewhere embarrassingly desperate. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten something that wasn't from a vending machine. But this was a hospital and somewhere down the corridor a machine was beeping, and I could already feel it crawling up my throat — that smell, that silence. It pressed against old memories I had spent years learning not to think about. My mother in a bed that looked exactly like this one. My mother's hand in mine going slowly, impossibly cold.

"I'm fine," I said again. Quietly this time.

I left before he could say anything else.

---

The car park was cold and I stood in the middle of it like a person who had absolutely no plan, which was accurate. I didn't recognise this part of the city. I had no money for a cab. And my phone showed four percent battery.

I stood very still and stared at the exit and thought about my options. The list was short. Embarrassingly short.

"Sarah!"

I turned.

A woman was cutting across the car park toward me, heels striking the tarmac like she was late to something important. She was in her forties, sharp eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses, leather folder under her arm.

"Sarah Rider." She said it like a statement, not a question. Like she'd been practising it. "Oh thank God. Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to find you?"

I took a small step back. "Do I know you?"

"No. But I know you." She grabbed my hand and shook it before I could decide whether I wanted her to."Agatha Coleman. I'm a lawyer. I sent you a text last week, asking where I could find you.”

Unknown number.

"That was you," I said.

"That was me." She nodded. "I've been chasing you for weeks, Sarah. Your old address — well. Your husband's people made it very clear they weren't going to help me find you."

"Ex. we are no longer married."

"I know." She said it plainly, no pity, which I appreciated more than she knew. She was already opening her folder, clicking her pen. "I represent the estate of Margaret Eloise Hale."

I went still.

"Your great-aunt," Agatha said. "She passed away six weeks ago. She was ninety-one, and she went peacefully at home." She paused to let that land. "But before she went, she made sure everything was in order. She updated her will three times in the last two years alone." She looked at me over her glasses. "Your name is in it, Sarah. It has always been in it."

"I haven't spoken to Aunt Maggie in twenty years." My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

"I know." Agatha pulled a document from the folder and held it out. "But she never took your name out. Not once.”

I stared at the papers without taking them. "What do I need to do?" I asked.

Agatha snapped her folder shut.

"Come with me," she said simply. "I'll explain everything.”