Chapter 211
Chapter 211:
The guard glanced at Noah. The boy looked sick, yes, but rich kids often looked pale and sickly. The mother was the customer. The mother was the one paying.
“Out,” the guard said, pulling her toward the door.
Aurora shook him off. “I’m leaving.”
She turned to Monica one last time. “If he dies, Monica, it is on you. Not Vivian. You.”
She walked out of the store, her hands shaking with rage. The moment she was on the sidewalk, she pulled out her phone and dialed 911.
“Emergency. Child in cardiac distress at Petit Trésor, Fifth Avenue. Send a pediatric unit. Code Blue.”
She hung up and waited across the street, hidden behind a newsstand.
Three minutes later, Monica came out of the store. She was dragging Noah, walking fast, looking over her shoulder. She loaded him into her car.
“She called the police, I know it,” Monica muttered to herself. “Crazy woman.”
She slammed the car door and drove away, merging into traffic just as the ambulance sirens began to wail in the distance.
Aurora watched the taillights disappear. She slammed her fist against the metal side of the newsstand. The pain in her knuckles was grounding, but it didn’t stop the cold dread settling in her stomach.
She had called the help. But ignorance had driven the patient away.
In the car, Noah’s head lolled against the window. His breathing shifted, becoming a wet, rattling sound.
Monica’s phone pinged. A text from Vivian.
How is the shopping?
Monica typed back with one hand on the wheel.
That Vance girl harassed us. Tried to say Noah was dying. Thanks for the herbs! He’s detoxing nicely.
Vivian, sitting in her salon at the Manor, read the text. She smiled and deleted it immediately.
Good, she thought. Keep him away from the doctors. Let the tragedy happen. And let Aurora be the one who caused the scene.
Aurora couldn’t go home. The apartment felt too quiet, too sterile. She needed action. She needed to bypass the bureaucracy that was killing a child.
She hailed a cab and headed straight to the Department of Family Services. She spent three hours in a drab waiting room arguing with a caseworker.
“I need to file an emergency report,” Aurora insisted, leaning over the counter. “Medical neglect. The child is in immediate danger.”
“Are you a relative?” the caseworker asked, typing slowly.
“No.”
“Are you a treating physician?”
“So, you’re a bystander,” the caseworker sighed. “We can take a report, Ms. Vance. But without evidence of abuse or a doctor’s referral, we can’t just storm a private residence. We’ll send a social worker to investigate within 48 hours.”