Alaina didn't go straight to the hospital. She couldn't. Without money, signing the treatment protocol meant nothing.
She stood in front of the massive walnut doors of her father's Upper East Side townhouse. Her wet clothes clung to her freezing skin. She pulled her spare key from her bag and shoved it into the lock.
She pushed the door open. The heavy wood made no sound.
From the sunken living room, the clinking of fine china and low laughter drifted into the foyer.
Alaina froze.
"Eleanor's medical bills are a bottomless pit, Warren," her stepmother, Brenda, said. Her voice was shrill, dripping with fake sympathy. "You can't keep bleeding our accounts dry for a woman who doesn't even know what year it is."
Alaina's father, Warren Vance, stood by the marble fireplace. He didn't look upset. He looked annoyed.
"Once the trust fund is transferred, I'm cutting the payments to the VIP ward," Warren said coldly.
Sitting on the cream-colored leather sofa across from them was Fred Porter.
Fred smiled, taking a sip of his tea. He placed a thick stack of legal documents on the glass coffee table. "It's simple, Warren. You sign this affidavit stating Alaina is mentally unstable and unfit to manage her grandfather's estate. I take over the trust, including the DARPA research formulas. In exchange, Porter Pharma injects ten million into your failing real estate firm."
A violent wave of nausea hit Alaina. Her stomach cramped so hard she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth.
They were selling her mother's life for a corporate bailout.
Alaina stepped into the living room. She swung her heavy, wet canvas bag and slammed it onto the polished hardwood floor.
The loud crack echoed through the room.
Brenda shrieked, her hand jerking. Hot tea sloshed over the rim of her bone-china cup, staining the expensive Persian rug.
Warren spun around. His face flushed with anger when he saw his daughter dripping rainwater onto his floor. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Fred stood up. He smoothed the front of his designer suit and walked toward Alaina. He put on a mask of deep concern, reaching out to grab her hand. "Alaina, sweetheart. You look terrible. Where were you last night?"
Alaina slapped his hand away. The smack echoed sharply.
She took a step back, her chest heaving. "Don't touch me."
She glared at Warren. "You're cutting off Mom's life support? For a real estate deal? You're helping him steal Grandpa's research?"
Warren's jaw clenched. He marched toward her, pointing a thick finger at her face. "You selfish brat. This family is going bankrupt. That formula is useless to you. It belongs in the hands of professionals!"
"She's a parasite, Warren," Brenda sneered, dabbing at the tea stain with a napkin. "Just like her mother."
Alaina didn't argue. She didn't cry. The betrayal burned away her fear, leaving only a cold, hard rage.
She walked straight to the glass coffee table.
Fred realized what she was doing a second too late. "Stop her!"
Alaina grabbed the stack of psychiatric evaluation papers. She gripped the thick parchment and ripped it down the middle. The sound of tearing paper was deafening in the quiet room. She tore it again, and again, until her fingers ached, then threw the shredded pieces into Fred's face.
The paper snowed down onto his expensive shoes.
Fred's mask slipped. His eyes darkened with pure malice. "You stupid bitch. If you don't give me that formula, I will make sure no biotech firm in this country ever hires you. You'll watch your mother rot in a public ward."
"I'd burn the formula to ash before I let you touch it," Alaina spat.
Warren raised his hand, his palm flying toward Alaina's face.
Alaina's left hand shot up. She caught her father's wrist mid-air. Her grip was like a vice, fueled by pure adrenaline.
"The moment you stopped paying her insurance," Alaina said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "you stopped being my father."
She shoved his arm away. Warren stumbled backward into the sofa.
"Get the guards!" Brenda screamed.
Alaina turned and sprinted toward the grand staircase.
Fred snapped his fingers. The two massive men in black raincoats-the same men from the alley-stepped out from the dining room and charged up the stairs after her.
Alaina reached the second floor. She threw herself into her old childhood bedroom and slammed the door. She twisted the lock and shoved her shoulder against her heavy oak dresser, pushing it across the floor until it blocked the doorframe.
A heavy thud shook the door. The wood splintered around the hinges.
Alaina dropped to her knees. She crawled under her bed and dug her fingernails into the edge of a loose floorboard. She ripped it up.
Beneath the dust lay a small, heavy iron box wrapped in waterproof canvas.
The DARPA formulas. Her grandfather's life's work. Her mother's only hope.
The bedroom door cracked open. A large hand reached through the splintered wood.
Alaina grabbed the iron box and shoved it down the front of her sweater, pressing the cold metal against her bare stomach. She ran to the window, threw the latch, and pushed the glass up.
Rain lashed against her face.
She climbed onto the windowsill, grabbed the thick copper drainage pipe attached to the brick exterior, and slid down into the dark, flooded backyard just as the bedroom door gave way.
