“MY SISTER LAUGHED AS I LAY BROKEN AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS—‘IT WAS JUST A JOKE!’ SHE SAID… UNTIL ONE RECEIPT EXPOSED HER TERRIFYING SECRET!”

I sat up so quickly the monitor wire pulled against my chest.

"Explain what?"

Mom folded her hands around her expensive purse. "Your father's business has had a difficult quarter. Whitcomb House needed the final payment. We thought we could borrow the money for a few days."

"You thought you could steal it."

"Don't use that word. We're family."

"Those funds are for emergency placements. People are waiting for beds."

She blinked at the mention of strangers, as if she had expected family to be the only people worth discussing. "We'll repay it Monday. Your father has an investor coming in."

"Today's Friday. The wedding is Sunday."

"Which is why I need you to be sensible."

I asked her how she got my corporate card number. She told me I was exhausted. I asked why my signature was on a payment form. She said I was being cruel. Finally she leaned closer.

"Sloane has already had to endure enough jealousy from you. Please don't punish her because you fell."

Before I could answer, the nurse returned to adjust my brace and my mother stepped away, suddenly all worried smiles. She kissed the air above my forehead and said, loud enough for the nurse, "We love you so much."

The moment she left, I called Nia again. "They admitted using the card. My parents. I want that documented."

"Do not confront anyone else tonight," Nia warned. "We need to preserve the evidence."

She emailed me a copy of the authorization form. The signature looked enough like mine to fool someone who had seen it twice. Not enough to fool me. My capital M made a sharp turn. This one had been traced slowly, like a child following a dotted line. Under the signature was a field that chilled me: RELATIONSHIP TO ACCOUNT HOLDER -- MOTHER.

An emergency department social worker brought me a charger, then helped me write down what I remembered about the staircase before I slept. I wrote that Sloane's hand struck the middle of my back. I wrote that I had been holding the railing with one hand and the program with the other. I wrote down what my mother and father had said.

At 1:17 a.m., an unfamiliar number texted me.

I SAW WHAT SHE DID. THEY'RE GOING TO SAY YOU TRIPPED.

Attached was a twelve-second video. The angle was shaky, taken from the service corridor, but it showed Sloane looking over her shoulder before shoving me hard with both hands.