The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only thing keeping Isla sane.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
As long as that sound continued, her father was still alive. Still breathing. Still here.
She pressed her forehead against the cool metal railing of his hospital bed, exhaustion weighing down every bone in her body. Twelve hours. She'd been sitting in this uncomfortable plastic chair for twelve hours straight, watching the rise and fall of his chest, counting each breath like a prayer.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, that particular shade of harsh white that made everyone look half-dead. Maybe that was the point. Maybe hospitals wanted you to blend in with the patients, to feel the weight of mortality pressing down on your shoulders until you couldn't tell the difference between the dying and the living.
"You should go home, sweetheart," the night nurse said softly from the doorway. Carol. Her name tag said Carol, and she had kind eyes that had seen too much suffering. "Get some rest. We'll call if anything changes."
Isla didn't look up. "I'm fine here."
"You've been here since six this morning."
"I said I'm fine."
Carol hesitated, then moved on to the next room. She probably had ten other families to check on, ten other people sitting vigil beside ten other beds, all of them pretending they were fine when they were anything but.
Isla reached out and took her father's hand. It felt papery. Fragile. When had he gotten so old? When had the man who used to throw her over his shoulders and spin her around until she screamed with laughter become this frail thing hooked up to machines?
She knew the answer, of course.
The gambling started after Mom died. Small bets at first. Scratch-off tickets. A few hands of poker with friends. Then it escalated. Casino trips. Online betting sites. Loans from people who didn't care about payment plans or excuses.
"Why?" she whispered, squeezing his hand gently. "Why couldn't you just stop?"
The machines beeped their indifferent response.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Mara, her sixteen-year-old sister.
Any updates?
Isla typed back quickly. Stable. Same as this morning. How's the studying?
Can't concentrate. I'm scared, Is.
I know, baby. But he's strong. He'll pull through.
She hit send before the guilt could stop her. Because the truth was, she didn't know if he'd pull through. The heart attack had been massive. The doctors were using words like "significant damage" and "long-term prognosis" with the kind of careful tone that meant they were preparing her for the worst.
And even if he survived, the medical bills would bury them.
Isla pulled up her banking app and stared at the number she'd already memorized.
$340.67
That was it. That was all she had between her family and complete financial collapse. Her last paycheck from the hospital had gone to Mara's school fees. The one before that to rent. The one before that to the minimum payment on Dad's credit cards—the ones she hadn't even known existed until the statements started arriving at the house.
She closed the app before the panic could set in.
One problem at a time. First, get Dad stabilized. Then figure out the money situation. Then—
"Ms. Cross?"
Isla looked up to find a doctor she didn't recognize standing in the doorway. Older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
"Yes?"
"I'm Dr. Richardson. I've been reviewing your father's case." He stepped into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "I wanted to discuss his treatment options moving forward."
Something about his tone made her stomach drop. "Okay."
"His insurance is... minimal. And the procedures he needs—the bypass surgery, the extended ICU stay, the medication regimen—they're quite expensive."
"How expensive?"
Dr. Richardson adjusted his glasses. "The hospital will do everything we can, of course. But you should be aware that the total cost could exceed three hundred thousand dollars. And that's assuming no complications."
The room tilted.
Three hundred thousand.
Three. Hundred. Thousand.
"I—" Isla's voice came out strangled. "I don't have that kind of money."
"I understand. There are payment plans, financial assistance programs—"
"I'm a pediatric nurse. I make $52,000 a year. I have a sixteen-year-old sister to support. My father has no assets, no savings, nothing but debt." The words tumbled out faster, edged with hysteria. "I can't—there's no way I can—"
"We'll work something out," Dr. Richardson said gently. "No one's going to let your father die over money, Ms. Cross. That's not how this works."
But they both knew that wasn't entirely true.
People died over money every single day.
Isla left the hospital at eleven-thirty that night because the nurses finally insisted she needed real food and real sleep, and because staying any longer would just mean watching her father breathe while drowning in financial calculations she couldn't solve.
The parking garage was mostly empty at this hour. Her footsteps echoed off concrete as she walked toward her beat-up Honda Civic, her purse clutched against her chest like it might protect her from everything currently falling apart.
She was halfway to her car when she heard the footsteps behind her.
Heavy. Deliberate. Multiple sets.
Isla's hand tightened on her keys. She walked faster.
The footsteps matched her pace.
"Ms. Cross."
She stopped. Turned.
Three men stood beneath the flickering fluorescent light, and everything about them screamed wrong. Too well-dressed for a hospital parking garage. Too still. Too aware.
The one in front was tall, thick-necked, with a scar running down his left cheek. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"We need to talk about your father's debt."
Isla's blood went cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do. Vincent Cross. Borrowed $500,000 from our employer six months ago. Terms were very clear—payment in full within a year, or we collect in other ways."
$500,000.
Five hundred thousand dollars.
On top of the medical bills.
Isla thought she might throw up right there on the concrete.
"He—he had a heart attack," she managed. "He can't—"
"We're aware," Scar-Face said pleasantly. "Unfortunate timing. But business is business, Ms. Cross. Our employer doesn't give extensions based on medical emergencies."
"I don't have that kind of money."
"We know. That's why we're here to discuss alternative arrangements."
The way he said "alternative arrangements" made her skin crawl.
"What kind of arrangements?"
Scar-Face pulled out his phone, swiped to a photo, and held it up.
Isla's heart stopped.
It was Mara. Walking out of school. Backpack over one shoulder, laughing at something her friend said, completely unaware someone was photographing her.
"Beautiful girl," Scar-Face said softly. "Your sister, right? Sixteen years old. Junior at Westfield Prep."
"Don't." The word came out razor-sharp. "Don't you dare—"
"We're not threatening anyone, Ms. Cross. Just making sure you understand the situation." He pocketed his phone. "You have forty-eight hours to produce $750,000. That's the original loan plus interest. If you can't pay, we'll accept your sister as collateral instead."
"Collateral?" Isla's voice pitched up. "She's a child—"
"Old enough," one of the other men said, and the implication in his tone made bile rise in Isla's throat.
"You can't—this is insane—I'll call the police—"
"And tell them what?" Scar-Face asked reasonably. "That your father borrowed money from questionable sources and now they want it back? The police won't help you, sweetheart. This is a civil matter. And even if it wasn't—" He leaned in close enough that she could smell his cologne. "—our employer has friends in the department. Very good friends."
Isla couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The parking garage was spinning.
$750,000.
Forty-eight hours.
Or they take Mara.
"I don't—I can't—"
"Figure it out." Scar-Face straightened. "We'll be in touch."
They turned to leave, three shadows melting back into the darkness of the parking garage.
Isla stood frozen, shaking so hard her keys rattled against each other.
This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
But it was.
It was.
She needed to—what? Call someone? Run? Take Mara and disappear? With what money? Where would they even go?
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Tick tock, Ms. Cross. 47 hours and 53 minutes.
A photo attached. Mara again. This one from an hour ago, visible through her bedroom window, sitting at her desk doing homework.
They were watching the house.
Watching Mara.
Right now.
Isla's legs gave out. She caught herself against her car, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
$750,000 in forty-eight hours or lose her baby sister to men who photographed sixteen-year-old girls through windows.
Impossible.
Completely, utterly impossible.
She was sliding down to sit on the cold concrete, head between her knees, trying not to hyperventilate, when she heard it.
Footsteps. Again.
Slower this time. Measured. Just one person.
"I couldn't help overhearing your predicament."
Isla's head snapped up.
A man stood about ten feet away, half-hidden in shadow. She could make out an expensive black suit, perfectly tailored. Polished shoes that probably cost more than her monthly rent. But his face was obscured, backlit by the distant parking garage lights.
"Who are you?" Her voice shook.
"Someone who might be able to help." He took a step closer, still carefully staying in the shadows. "That is, if you're interested in discussing a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Every instinct screamed at her to run. Strange men in parking garages offering help didn't end well in any scenario she could imagine.
But she was trapped in a nightmare with a forty-eight-hour deadline and $340 in her bank account.
What choice did she have?
"What kind of arrangement?" she whispered.
The man in the black suit smiled.
She couldn't see it, exactly. But she could feel it. Could sense the satisfaction in his posture.
Like she'd just walked directly into a trap he'd set long before tonight.
"Let's discuss this somewhere more private," he said smoothly. "My car is just over there. Or if you'd prefer somewhere public, there's an all-night café three blocks away."
Isla knew she should say no. Should tell this stranger to leave her alone. Should call someone—anyone—for help.
Instead, she heard herself say, "The café. I'll meet you there in ten minutes."
"Excellent." He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Ms. Cross? Don't run. I'm your only option right now, and we both know it."
He disappeared into the shadows before she could respond.
Isla sat on the cold concrete of the parking garage, shaking, tears streaming down her face, her phone buzzing with another text from the men who wanted to take her sister.
47 hours and 49 minutes.
She pulled herself to her feet.
Unlocked her car.
And drove toward a decision she knew, deep in her bones, she was going to regret for the rest of her life.
But what choice did she have?
When you're drowning, you don't ask questions about the hand pulling you up.
You just grab on.
And pray you survive what comes next.