“I didn’t send one,” Sylvie said.
Maya pulled back. “Yes, you did.”
The room changed.
I stood.
Maya looked from Sylvie to me. “A text. From your number. It said, ‘They’re here. Please come to Mount Sinai. Room 203.’”
Sylvie reached toward the bedside table. “My phone died before the ambulance arrived.”
Nurse Torres had plugged it into a charger beside the bed. The screen now glowed faintly.
Sylvie unlocked it with shaking fingers.
There was no sent message to Maya.
No outgoing call to me.
Maya’s face paled. “Then who texted me?”
I took the phone from Sylvie gently, expecting her to resist. She didn’t.
The call log showed missed calls from Maya, two from Dr. Kim’s office, several unknown numbers from earlier in the day. Nothing outgoing to my private phone.
“Someone wanted us both here,” I said.
Maya hugged the folder tighter.
“What’s that?” Sylvie asked.
Maya glanced at me uneasily.
Sylvie noticed. “He can hear it.”
The trust in that sentence was small, but I felt it.
Maya handed her the folder. “You asked me to keep these until after the babies came.”
Sylvie closed her eyes briefly. “I forgot.”
“What are they?” I asked.
Sylvie opened the folder but did not immediately answer.
Inside were copies of documents. Medical records. A handwritten letter. A sealed envelope with my name on it.
My pulse shifted.
“That letter,” I said.
Sylvie touched the envelope. “The one I sent to the townhouse.”
“It came back?”
“No.” She looked at me. “Maya made me keep a copy before I mailed it.”
Maya gave a faint, apologetic shrug. “Family habit. Assume important things vanish.”
Sylvie handed me the envelope.
My name was written across the front in her handwriting.
Adrian.
No last name. No title.