But when I search deep inside, I realize I’m much more afraid of Alessandro turning his back on me. Somehow, he’s torn down my walls, and the feeling of being totally vulnerable and exposed to him both terrifies and thrills me. It’s like the rush of free-falling, and knowing I can take the risk because Alessandro will catch me.

Except, what if he doesn’t? What if I tell him this and he lets me fall on my face?

I’m wound so tight trying to sort through this that, when my phone rings, I jump a mile, sure it’s him. But then I realize the ringtone isn’t Creed. I pick my phone up off the nightstand and look at the screen.

Bedford Hills Correctional.

My heart leaps. I went yesterday, on New Year’s, and Mom refused my visit again. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I stab the connect button and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Ms. McIntyre? Hilary McIntyre?” a woman’s voice that’s not Mom’s asks.

“Yes.”

“Ms. McIntyre, this is Sylvia Reingold at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. Your mother is asking for you.”

For a full minute, I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. “Is she okay?” I finally ask.

“She’s being transported to Northern Westchester Hospital as we speak. The doctor says it’s close. You might want to hurry.”

“I will,” I say, numb.

“And she’s also asked for your sister, if you can reach her. We don’t have her number on file.”

My pounding heart flips in my chest. “Okay.”

I disconnect and dial Mallory.

“Hey,” she says, and through the blood pounding in my ears, I hear the boys yelling in the background. It sounds like Max is getting back to himself.

“Mal, we have to go to see Mom. She’s—”

“Stop, Hilary,” she interrupts, her voice a blade. “I told you why I can’t go. Please respect that.”

“They’re taking her to the hospital. They said she’s asking for us and that we should hurry. This is it, Mallory. She’s really dying.”

“Good,” she spits, but then there’s a long pause where all I hear is the TV blaring and the boys fighting. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I want you to come.”

“Which hospital?” she asks after a beat.

“Northern Westchester.”

She blows out a breath. “I’ll be there in an hour to pick you up.”

I’M ON THE curb when Mallory’s silver Volvo SUV rolls to a stop next to the parked cars in front of my building. The car behind her honks as I race over and hop in. And when I look at her as she pulls away, I’m surprised to see she’s been crying.

She glances over and sees the surprise on my face. “Don’t even say it,” she warns, holding up a hand.

I sink into the seat and neither of us says anything as she navigates us through the city to the West Side Highway.

“What else did they say?” she finally asks just as we’re crossing the bridge into the Bronx.

“Nothing really.” I look at her. “But she asked for both of us.”

Her jaw grinds tight and she keeps her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I’ll never forgive her. I don’t care if she’s dying or not.”

“I don’t blame you.”

When she doesn’t say anything else, I lean my forehead into the window and close my eyes.

It’s an hour and a half later that Mallory’s GPS informs us we’re “arriving at destination.” She pulls into the parking lot and we go to the information desk.

“Where is Roseanne McIntyre’s room?” I ask the old woman at the computer.

She pecks at the keys for a minute and I want to scream at her to move her ancient bones faster, but I bite my tongue.

“I don’t see any MacEntire,” she finally says.

“No. McIntyre. M, C, I. She was probably just brought in from Bedford Correctional.”

She types some more and smiles as she hits pay dirt. “Oh! Here she is. She’s in a secured room on the third floor.” She looks up at us. “Are you family?”

But I’m already sprinting toward the elevator. Mallory steps up behind me as the doors open. I wait for everyone coming out to get the hell out of our way, then step in and push three. When the doors open again, it’s into a long corridor. Just down from us is the nurses’ station, and across the hall, sitting in a molded plastic chair, is a corrections guard. I hurry toward him, Mallory lagging behind.

“We’re Roseanne McIntyre’s daughters. She was asking for us,” I pant.

“ID,” he says, standing from his chair and towering over us. He’s huge, like they think Mom’s a flight risk and they might need a mountain of a guard to wrestle her into submission when we try to break her out.

I hand him my ID, and I see Mallory’s hand shake when she holds hers out to him.

“You can see her one at a time. Fifteen minutes each.” He pushes the door open. “Who’s first?”

“Her,” Mallory shoots before I have a chance to respond.

I look at her hard. “Don’t you disappear.”

Her terrified eyes flick toward the door then back to me. “I can’t do this, Hilary.”

“She’s dying, Mal. You have to.” I step up and hug her. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

I feel her shake as she lets a sob loose into my shoulder. I hold her for a few minutes, until she gets her shit together.

“Okay,” she finally says, peeling herself away and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

I back off and she steps up to the door, hauling a deep breath before walking through.

The guard leaves the door open and stands watch outside. I so want to eavesdrop, but instead, I wander over to the nurses’ desk. “Excuse me,” I say to a middle-aged woman sitting there typing into a computer.

She holds a finger up at me, then types something else before looking up. “Can I help you?”

“My mom, Roseanne McIntyre?” I say with a wave of my hand at her door. “I was wondering . . . are they saying how long she has?”

Her expression goes all sympathetic as she stands. “Not long. Hours, most likely.”

“What . . .” I swallow the pulsing lump in my throat. “What kind of cancer does she have?” I don’t know why it matters, but I want to know.

Her lips press into a grim line before she answers. “Lung cancer, but it’s metastasized everywhere now.”

I turn and take a step to the side so I can see her bed through the door. I can’t see Mom at all, just a mound of blankets, but Mallory’s standing about five feet away, at the bottom of the bed. My heart contracts into a hard knot when I see her shoulders shaking as she cries.

“What are you doing for her? Is she in pain?” I ask, swallowing back my own tears.

“We’re doing everything we can to make her last few hours comfortable,” the nurse says as I turn back to her.

“Good. Is there a vending machine on this floor?”

She points up the hall. “In the lounge at the end of the corridor.”

“Thanks.” I head in the direction she pointed and locate the door marked “patient lounge.” Inside, I find the machine. I dig through my bag for a dollar and feed it into the slot, then push D6 and the Oh Henry! is pushed of the rack and thunks into the tray at the bottom. I grab it and head back to Mom’s room.

I peek through the door again and see Mallory is closer now, at the side of the bed. An arm reaches out of the mound of blankets. It’s bony and it shakes as it extends toward her. Mallory tentatively takes the knobby hand. I watch as she leans closer, as if trying to hear something Mom said. She shakes her head and fresh tears spill over her lashes, but then she sinks into the chair at the side of the bed and holds Mom’s hand in both of hers, pressing the backs of Mom’s fingers against her forehead as she cries.

And that’s it. I can’t stop the tears leaking from my eyes, first a trickle and then a flood. I lean my back against the wall and cover my face as sobs hitch out of my core.

But a second later, Mallory’s at the door. “Someone help!”

The nurse from the station and the guard both rush into the room, and I follow.