The phone rang at 2:47 a.m.
Not a buzz, not a soft vibration meant to be ignored, a sharp, shrill sound that ripped through the dark like an alarm meant for disasters.
I woke up gasping, my heart slammed so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs open inside my chest. For a second, I didn't know where I was, the ceiling above me looked wrong, the air felt too thick.
I reached out blindly and knocked my coffee cup off the nightstand, it shattered on the floor, cold liquid splashing against my wrist.
The phone kept ringing, I fumbled for it, fingers stiff, eyes burning as I squinted at the screen.
Unknown number.
I stalled, staring at the call button. No one calls at this hour unless it has to do with —finances, bodies, lives, debt collectors with polite voices and sharp reminders, rent notices, maxed credit cards I pretended didn't exist, student loans that felt like a future I'd already failed.
I should have let it ring or ignore it while putting the phone on silence. But it's as if the caller read my mind. The call came again, and this time, the sound drilled deeper, relentless, like it knew me, like it had found a weak spot. Achill ran down my spine.
I answered.
"Hello?" My voice sounded torn up, like I'd been screaming in my sleep.
"Is this Maya Wells?"
A woman's voice, calm, professional, too steady for the middle of the night.
I pushed myself upright, the sheets tangled around my legs. "Yes, who's calling?"
"This is St. Mary's Hospital, I'm calling about Richard Wells, he listed you as his emergency contact."
It took a moment for the words to hit me. They dropped slowly, one by one, each one heavier than the last. My chest tightened.
"No," I said before I meant to. Then, "What happened? Is he..."
"He's stable," she said quickly.
Relief flared so fast it hurt.
Then she paused, just long enough.
"But you should come in, he's been asking for you."
Asking for me.
The room felt smaller, like the walls had leaned in to listen.
"I'm coming," I said. My voice stayed steady, but my hands told a different story. "I'm on my way."
She started to say something else, and I hung up before she could finish.
I left the lights off, I pulled on the first pair of jeans I touched, still stiff with fryer grease from my shift, and shoved my feet into sneakers without tying them properly, my shirt was wrinkled, my hair was a mess, none of it mattered. By the time I locked the door behind me, my hands were shaking so badly I had to try twice.
The city at three in the morning felt hollowed out. Quieter, yes, but heavier too, like it was holding its breath. The subway station reeked of metal and old urine and something chemical that tried and failed to mask the rot underneath. I sat on a cracked plastic seat, knees bouncing, watching my reflection smear across the dark train window.
Twenty-four, technically, you wouldn't have guessed it from my face. Life had sharpened my features, carved tiredness into places that should've still been soft. Three jobs would do that. Waitressing until eleven, tutoring rich kids in math until midnight, freelance financial analysis until my eyes blurred and my brain shut down. All of it just to survive in a city that devoured girls like me without even slowing down. And suddenly none of it mattered.
My father, the man who raised me, the only family I had left, was in a hospital bed.
Please, I thought, fingers digging into my bag strap. Not yet.
Not before I could give him something back, not before I stopped feeling like a constant disappointment, not before he could see that all his sacrifice hadn't been for nothing.
The train screeched to a stop, I ran.
St. Mary's Hospital loomed out of the dark, watching—concrete, glass, cold intention. The automatic doors slid open as I burst inside, lungs burning.
"Richard Wells," I said at the desk. "I'm his daughter, someone called me."
The receptionist had kind eyes, the kind you trust even when everything else is falling apart. She typed, nodded once.
"Room 347, third floor."
I don't remember thanking her.
The elevator ride disappeared from my memory. One moment I was stabbing the button like it had personally betrayed me, the next I was standing in a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and endings.
Room 347.
The door was slightly open, I pushed it wider and stopped.
For a moment, my brain refused to connect the man in the bed with the man who raised me. My father had always been solid, steady. The kind of man whose presence alone made things feel survivable, but the figure beneath the thin hospital blanket looked smaller, shrunken, like something in him had gone dry. His skin was pale, almost translucent, tubes snaked into places they didn't belong. The steady beep of the monitor sounded too much like a countdown.
"Maya."
My name cracked when he said it. I crossed the room without remembering the space between. "Dad." My voice didn't sound like mine. "What happened?"
He reached for me, his hand trembled when I took it.
"Sit," he said softly.
I did. His fingers felt too light in mine.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his eyes shone, real tears, I had no memory of my father crying. "I didn't want to be the reason you lost sleep, I know how hard you work."
"Don't," I said quickly. "Just tell me."
Silence settled between us, thick and awful. The machines kept up their rhythm, steady and cruel. When he finally looked at me again, a heavy drop settled in my stomach. His face held something heavy, grief so dense it felt like it could pull me under just by looking at it.
"There's something I never told you," he said.
His free hand shook as he reached for the bedside table, fingers fumbling until they closed around a photograph. He pressed it into my palm.
"I didn't want this to become your weight to carry," he continued. "You had your whole life ahead of you, but now…" His voice broke. "Now, I have no choice."
I looked down.
The woman in the photo was beautiful, not polished or staged, just real, warm, alive. Dark hair pulled back, blue dress catching sunlight, she was laughing at something just out of frame, like the world had surprised her with joy.
A weight pressed against my chest.
My mother.
"I've seen this before," I said softly. "You've shown me pictures of her."
"Not this one," he whispered. "Turn it over."
I did.
The writing on the back was faded but clear:
Elizabeth Hartley, Stone Industries Summer Picnic, 2008.
I caught on immediately, it always did.
"Stone Industries?" I frowned. "You said you met at a charity event, you never said she worked there."
"I lied."
The word sat between us like a loaded gun.
"I've lied to you about a lot of things," he said. "And I can't leave without telling you the truth."
A chill ran down my spine. "Leave where?"
He laughed, but it was broken, ugly. "The doctors didn't mince words, stage four pancreatic cancer, it's spread, liver, lungs." He met my eyes. "Weeks, Maya, maybe less."
The room tilted.
"No," I said, gripping the bed rail. "No, that's not..."
"I've been hiding it for six months." His voice was steady now, and that scared me more than anything. "I didn't want you watching me disappear, but there's something you need to know before I'm gone. About your mother."
It felt like my heart was hammering itself into pain.
"You told me she died in a car accident," I said. "I was eight."
"Nine," he corrected gently. "And it wasn't an accident."
Someone cried in the hallway. The machines kept beeping, indifferent. I couldn't move, the photograph felt impossibly heavy in my hands.
"Tell me," I said.
His grip tightened around mine, painful. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded stripped raw.
"Your mother was murdered, Maya."
The world went very still.
"And I know exactly who killed her."