Downstairs, the house glowed. Soft jazz drifted through the marble hallway from speakers hidden beside the living-room columns. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed in the dining room with the polished, careful laugh people use when they want to sound wealthy.

Caterers carried trays beneath the chandelier, and the scent of lemon butter, roasted asparagus, and expensive perfume filled the rooms as if nothing could possibly be wrong.

But everything was wrong. Sabina’s lips were dry. Her eyelids kept sinking shut. When I tried to help her drink from the small cup in her medical bag, she swallowed once, then turned her face into my neck.

“Mommy,” she whispered, barely louder than air, “I’m so tired.”

Those words sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with her fever.

I grabbed my keys from the console and headed for the front door. I didn’t change clothes. I didn’t check my appearance. I told the kitchen staff only, “My daughter is sick.