Page 11 of Open Secrets (Infidelity #5)

The knock startled me. Sharp, loud enough to cut through the hum of the dryer downstairs.

“Shit.” I wiped my hands on my leggings and darted down the hall on my toes so the kids didn’t wake. The laundry basket was half-sorted, socks spilling like guts, but I didn’t stop.

I skidded to the front door and wedged myself between the frame and whoever was out there. An older woman stood on the porch, hair smoothed into a neat bun, a folder tucked against her chest. Her smile was polite, professional, but something about it prickled.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Hi. Mrs. Connelly?”

I nodded. My throat went dry. “Oh my God—my husband. Is he okay?”

She waved her hand, quick. “Yes, yes, I’m not here about that.”

Relief collapsed through me—only to twist when she added, “My name is Linda Moran. I’m a social worker with the school district.”

I blinked at her. “Okay?”

“We’ve had a report regarding your daughter, Rain.” She flipped open her folder, eyes skimming down. “Her prolonged absence from school. The other children mentioned she’s been sick.”

I went still, spine snapping straight. “You spoke to my children. Without me or my husband present.”

She nodded, that polite smile never wavering. “It’s protocol when there’s a concern of neglect.”

Neglect. The word slammed into me.

I opened my mouth to tell her to get the hell off my porch, but she added lightly, “Schools are mandated reporters, Mrs. Connelly. I need to check on the children on the premises. If you’d prefer, I can always return with an officer.”

She said it like she was offering tea.

Fury thrummed in my veins. She was threatening me with a smile.

“They’re sleeping,” I bit out.

“I’ll wait,” she said pleasantly, stepping one polished shoe across the threshold.

I bared my teeth in something faker than her own smile and stepped aside.

The living room didn’t help my case. Cushions were askew, August’s Lego landmines lay underfoot, two half-folded blankets were tossed over the arm of the couch. Rain’s pillow still sat on the recliner from last night, her feverish body refusing to move upstairs.

“She’s had the flu,” I said quickly, shutting the door behind us. “For a week. I haven’t exactly…” I gestured vaguely at the mess.

“Of course,” she murmured, lowering herself into the armchair like she was settling in for coffee. She pulled a stack of forms onto her lap, pen poised. “I just have a few questions for you.”

I crossed my arms, chin lifting. “Fine.”

“Your husband is First Lieutenant Lyle Connelly, Army, currently stationed at Fort Liberty?”

Her tone was mild, but my jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“Congratulations on his recent promotion,” she added, smiling.

I nodded once, waiting for her to move on.

“And you’re a dentist. Opened your own clinic, correct?”

“Yes.” My voice came clipped.

“That must be stressful. Running a business while raising four children.”

I shrugged, forcing something like nonchalance. “Can be. But I’ve been lucky.”

She hummed like she didn’t believe in luck. “And you also have a younger son.”

“August,” I said. “He’s two.”

She glanced at her notes, brows knitting. “Two. So not in school?”

I shook my head. “Usually he stays with my mother-in-law or my dad when I’m at work, but they were busy today.” The truth was neither of them had answered my call.

“He’s here now?”

“Yes.”

“And Rain?”

“Also home. Sick.” My words sharpened; I had already said this. “That’s why I took time off. I’ve been with her.”

Linda’s pen scratched across the paper, steady, unhurried. She looked up again, eyes scanning my face like she was studying more than my answers.

I sat stiff in the chair opposite her, every muscle tight, my arms wrapped across my chest so hard my nails left crescents in my skin.

“Do you have doctor’s notes for her absences?” she asked, voice clipped but polite. “Any records of recent visits, or medication she’s been given?”

I wanted to tell her to get the hell out of my house. I wanted to tell her Rain’s health was none of her damn business. But the threat from earlier still hung in the air—come back with an officer—and the thought of my kids waking up to flashing lights made my throat close.

So instead I forced my voice steady. “Yeah. Of course.”

I pushed back from the chair and walked toward the kitchen, each step heavy with a mix of anger and shame.

The counters were cluttered—juice boxes, snack wrappers, the remains of a life running on survival mode.

I shoved things aside until I found the small plastic bottles, labels crinkled from being tossed around too many times.

Antibiotics. Fever reducers. The sticky cough syrup Rain hated.

I added the folded discharge papers from the ER visit last night, the ink still sharp where the doctor had scrawled follow-up recommended.

Gathering it all into my arms, I paused, chest tight. This wasn’t proof of neglect. It was proof I was fighting like hell to keep my daughter safe.

When I turned back toward the living room, Linda’s polite smile was still waiting.

I spread the papers across the coffee table, pushing the pill bottles toward her like an offering. Linda skimmed them with her sharp little eyes, her pen still scratching. But when she landed on the folded ER discharge, her face flickered with something almost human.

“You were there last night?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered quickly. “Rain had a nosebleed that wouldn’t stop. They gave her fluids, ran bloodwork. Said she’s anaemic.” My voice cracked, but I forced it steady. “That’s why she’s home. That’s why she’s missed school.”

The visit dragged on—one polite interrogation after another, each question delivered with that same smile. By the time she finally agreed to leave—without waking Rain, who had literally just fallen asleep—I felt wrung out, hollow.

I closed the door behind her, pressed my forehead against the wood, and let out a long, shaking sigh. Since when did a sick kid equal neglect?

I barely made it to the sofa before my knees gave, collapsing into the cushions like a puppet with its strings cut. Five minutes—five minutes of quiet was all I got.

“Mama!”

The cry was sharp, high-pitched, too frantic to be ignored. My body reacted before my brain caught up. I ran, flying up the stairs two at a time, heart thundering so loud it drowned out thought.

I burst into Rain’s room and froze.

August stood in his toddler bed, little fists gripping the rail, eyes huge and wet. He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at his sister.

Rain.

My baby girl lay limp against her pillow, her face slick with blood, the sheets beneath stained deep red.

“Oh God—” The words ripped out of me.

I was at her side in a blink. My hands moved automatically—two fingers to her throat. Pulse, faint but steady. I leaned close, listening, willing to hear the soft rasp of her breathing. Airway clear. No obstruction.

She didn’t stir. Didn’t even twitch.

It was enough to know she was alive, but not nearly enough to stop the terror clawing at my chest.

My hands fumbled for my phone, slick with sweat.

911. I forced my voice steady enough to give vitals, to describe symptoms the way I’d rattle off a patient history at the clinic—uncontrolled epistaxis, pallor, unresponsive, possible hypovolemia.

The words sounded clinical, detached, but my heart was breaking between every syllable.

They told me not to move her. An ambulance was on the way. Ten minutes.

Ten minutes.

The longest of my life.

I pulled August into my lap, wrapping him tight in his blankie, rocking him as if I could shield him from this nightmare.

With my free hand, I kept hold of Rain’s fingers.

So small. So cold. I rubbed them, whispering prayers I didn’t even believe in anymore.

A part of me counted her breaths the way I’d count them on a patient chair.

Another part begged God—or anyone—not to take her from me.

When the paramedics stormed in, they moved with swift precision, voices clipped and efficient.

They wouldn’t let me ride in the back with August, so I strapped him into his car seat with shaking hands and followed, tailing the ambulance through traffic, every red light a threat, every second an eternity.

At the hospital they wheeled her away before I could even kiss her forehead. Words flew past me—tests, bloodwork, won’t stop bleeding—but none of them stuck.

I sat in the waiting room, August heavy in my lap, his head pressed into my chest. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold the phone. But I called him anyway.

Please pick up.

Once. Twice.

Third ring. “Maria, I’m about to—”

“Rain’s in the hospital,” I cut him off, fast.

Silence. Then: “What?”

“Her nose started bleeding again and it wouldn’t stop. I tried to wake her, but she—” My voice splintered.

“It’s a nosebleed,” he said quickly. “Kids get those all the time.”

“Do you hear me?” I yelled, the sound bouncing off the sterile walls, making people stare. I lowered my voice to a hoarse whisper. “They’re working on her now. Running tests. And it wasn’t just a fucking nosebleed.”

Silence on the other end. Then his voice, quiet, cracked. “She’ll be okay, right?”

“I don’t know,” I breathed, shaking my head even though he couldn’t see. “I don’t know.”

The words tumbled, unspooling faster than I could catch them.

“Lyle… there was this social worker. She came to the house, said the school reported neglect. What if they think this is my fault? What if they—what if they take her away? What if they take the kids?” My chest seized.

“God, I have to pick up the kids from school—”

“Maria,” his voice cut through, firm. “Take a breath. Listen to me. I’ll call my mom, ask her to pick them up. You stay put. Stay with Rain. I’m coming home. I’m putting in for leave right now. Just hold on, okay?”

Tears blurred everything. “Hurry,” I whispered.

“I love you,” he said, solid, unwavering.

“I love you too,” I choked out, clutching the phone like it was all that was holding me together.