I Married Up? I Inherited Higher!

"911, what's your emergency?"

The dispatcher's voice crackled through the radio as Jake threw the ambulance around another corner. I grabbed the handle above my head, my other hand already reaching for my med bag.

"Female caller. Husband not breathing. Possible cardiac arrest." Jake's voice was clipped. Professional. We'd done this a hundred times.

"Address is 1847 Ashford Heights."

My stomach dropped.

I knew that address.

I'd been there for five Thanksgivings. Four Christmases. One anniversary dinner where my mother-in-law told me my mashed potatoes "tasted store-bought."

1847 Ashford Heights was my in-laws' house.

"You okay?" Jake glanced at me.

"Fine." The word came out steady. Nurse training. "How far?"

"Two minutes."

Two minutes to prepare myself for whatever this was.

Lawrence. My father-in-law. The only Sterling who'd ever looked at me like I was a person, not just Griffin's "unfortunate choice."

And Constance. My mother-in-law. The woman who'd spent five years making sure I knew exactly where I stood. Below her. Below her friends. Below her expectations.

The ambulance screamed through the empty streets. 2 AM. The city was asleep.

We weren't.

Jake hit the brakes. The house loomed in front of us—all stone and perfect landscaping and old money.

I was out before the ambulance fully stopped.

The front door hung open. Light spilled onto the driveway. Someone was screaming inside.

I ran.

Marble floors. Crystal chandelier. The smell of expensive candles and furniture polish. All of it familiar. All of it cold.

Constance was on her knees in the hallway. Silk nightgown. Perfect hair even at 2 AM. Her hands were shaking.

Lawrence was on the floor beside her. Grey. Still. Not breathing.

Then Constance looked up.

Saw me.

Her face changed. Just for a second. Not relief. Not gratitude.

Fear.

"Piper?" Her voice cracked. "What are you—"

I didn't have time for whatever this was.

"Move."

I dropped beside Lawrence. Checked his pulse. Barely there. Weak. Thready.

"How long has he been like this?"

"I don't—maybe five minutes? I called right away—"

"Jake! Crash cart!"

My hands were already on Lawrence's chest. Thirty compressions. Hard. Fast. Feeling ribs flex under my palms.

"Piper, is he—" Constance's voice was high. Tight.

"Let me work."

Tilt his head. Clear the airway. Two breaths.

Nothing.

"Clear!" Jake positioned the AED pads.

Lawrence's body jumped.

Still nothing.

Back to compressions. My arms burned. Sweat dripped into my eyes.

"Again!"

Shock.

This time—

A beep.

Weak. But there.

"We got him." Jake was already prepping the gurney.

I kept my hands on Lawrence's chest. Monitoring. Counting. Making sure that heartbeat stayed.

We lifted him. Strapped him down. Started moving.

Constance followed us out, barefoot on the driveway. Her mascara had run. She looked small. Breakable.

She grabbed my arm as we loaded the gurney.

"Thank you." Her eyes were wide. "Thank God you were—"

I pulled away. Climbed into the ambulance.

"St. Mary's," I told Jake. "Fast."

The doors closed. The siren started. Constance's face disappeared behind us.

Inside, Lawrence's eyes fluttered open. Just barely. He was trying to focus on me.

"Don't talk," I said, adjusting the oxygen mask. "You're going to be okay."

His hand moved. Weak. Reaching for mine.

I took it. His fingers were cold. Clammy.

He pulled me closer. His lips moved behind the mask.

I lifted it slightly. Leaned in.

"Seven..." His voice was barely a whisper. "Two... nine... nine..."

"What?"

"Seven. Two. Nine. Nine." Each number took effort. "Take it."

"Lawrence, I don't—"

"Promise." His grip tightened. Just a little. "Promise me."

"I promise."

His hand relaxed. His eyes closed.

I put the mask back. Checked his vitals. Stable. For now.

Seven-two-nine-nine.

What did that mean?

I looked down at him. At this man who'd always treated me with more kindness than his own son ever had. Who'd asked about my day. Who'd listened when I talked about work. Who'd never once made me feel small.

Behind my eyes, Constance's face flashed. That look when she'd seen me.

Not relief.

Fear.

Like I was the last person she wanted to see.

Like I'd ruined something.

The ambulance doors opened. St. Mary's. Bright lights. Voices shouting. Hands reaching for the gurney.

"Cardiac arrest, approximately ten minutes down time—"

The words blurred together as they wheeled Lawrence away. Down the hall. Through the double doors. Gone.

I stood there. In the ambulance bay. Hands still shaking. Scrubs stuck to my back with sweat.

"Good save." Jake clapped my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah." I wasn't sure if that was true.

"Go get cleaned up. I'll handle the paperwork."

The hospital was quiet at 3 AM. I found the staff bathroom. Washed my hands. Splashed water on my face.

In the mirror, I looked tired. Five years of night shifts tired. Five years of being the Sterling family's "the nurse" tired.

My phone buzzed.

Griffin: Heard about Dad. Thanks for helping.

I stared at the text.

Not: Are you okay?

Not: That must have been hard.

Not even: Where are you?

Just: Thanks for helping.

Like I'd helped him move furniture. Like I'd picked up his dry cleaning.

Like his father hadn't almost died in front of me.

I didn't reply.

Another buzz.

Unknown number: Ms. Sterling, this is Robert Chen, Lawrence Sterling's attorney. He asked me to give you this code if you saved his life. 7-2-9-9. He said you'd know what to do with it.

I read it again.

Seven-two-nine-nine.

The same numbers Lawrence had whispered.

If you saved his life.

Lawrence had known. Somehow, he'd known I'd be the one who came. The one who'd save him.

And he'd prepared for it.

I looked at Griffin's text again. Then at Robert Chen's message.

Something was wrong.

Something had been wrong for a while.

And Lawrence wanted me to find out what.