I zoomed in.
My stomach turned.
The label was blurry, but I could still make out part of the name.
Ethan Vale.
My son’s name.
On a medication bottle in Melissa’s hotel room.
I stood so fast the chair screeched backward.
My father opened the door instantly.
“Claire?”
I couldn’t speak.
I handed him the phone.
He looked at the photo.
Once.
Twice.
Then every drop of color drained from his face.
“What is that?” I whispered. “Dad, why does she have Ethan’s medication?”
My father’s expression turned into something ancient and lethal.
He walked out of the room without answering and called someone.
His voice was so quiet I had to step into the hallway to hear him.
“Pull the pharmacy records. Now.”
A pause.
“Check every refill. Every pickup. Every camera.”
Another pause.
Then his eyes lifted to mine.
And in that instant, I understood something that made the grief inside me twist into horror.
This might not have been only betrayal.
This might have been something worse.
At 5:19 a.m., my father’s investigator called back.
