The Return of Connor Mansfield. Beth Cornelison

deceased. But he wasn’t dead.

      A shudder rippled through him. The drone of blood whooshing through his veins buzzed in his ears.

      It was a near certainty...

      He was the baby’s father.

      * * *

      The hardest part about being a mother was seeing your child suffer and being absolutely powerless to ease her pain.

      Her heart giving a tender throb, Darby leaned forward to stroke her daughter’s tiny brow, knit in discomfort even as she slept. If Darby could have been the one getting stuck with needles and dealing with the nausea from the chemo treatments, she would have switched places with Savannah in a second. But all she could do was watch her baby soldier through the treatments and procedures she was too young to understand.

      Please, God, don’t take my baby, she begged silently for the millionth time. She’d lost Savannah’s father four and a half years ago, before she’d even realized she was pregnant, and thought she wouldn’t survive the pain. When she’d learned she was having Connor’s baby, she’d pulled herself together and rebuilt her life, focused on raising the miracle that was Savannah. An unexpected posthumous gift from Connor.

      Connor. Another sharp pang twisted in her chest, and she forcefully shoved down the suffocating ache. She had to be strong for her daughter.

      In her purse, her cell phone trilled. Darby set aside the sketch pad on her lap—drawing had always been her best stress reliever—and swiped tears from her cheek as she shuffled through her bag. The caller ID showed the insurance company with which she’d bought health coverage, and Darby tapped the answer key.

      “Hello,” she whispered, hoping not to wake Savannah. She rose from her chair beside the hospital bed that swallowed her daughter and crept quietly to the hall to take the call.

      After a brief silence, a man asked, “Ms. Kent?”

      “Speaking.”

      “This is...uh, Sam Orlean with Tri-State Insurance.” His voice had a funny nasal pitch to it as though he had a bad cold or something.

      “Yes, Mr. Orlean, what can I do for you?”

      “I’m...calling about your recent claims.”

      She didn’t like the hesitation in his voice. A knot tightened her gut. “Is there a problem?”

      “It’s standard procedure to do a policy review when claims reach a certain level. The company needs to verify the claims so that your daughter’s treatments can be covered.”

      A nervous sweat rose on Darby’s top lip. “What kind of concerns do you have?”

      She tried to keep the note of panic out of her voice, but even the suggestion that the insurance company would deny her claim made her lunch churn and threaten to come up. If her claim for Savannah’s treatments was turned down, the expense of chemotherapy, the hospital stay, the CT scans, blood tests, doctors’ appointments... She’d go bankrupt paying for it all. She couldn’t possibly afford—

      “Can you tell me when Savannah—” his voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat “—first showed signs of illness?”

      Darby frowned, wondering what had the man so anxious, but also wary of his questions. She poked her head back into Savannah’s room to check on her. Still sleeping, if fitfully. “She had been acting droopy, tired and cranky for a few weeks back in February. I assumed she was catching a cold or maybe had an ear infection. You should have a receipt for the trip to her pediatrician in her file for around the sixth.”

      “Yes, I see it.” He had her recount other trips to the doctor, tests that were run and details of the treatment regimen that was started once Savannah’s leukemia was confirmed. “And how far into the chemo treatments are you?”

      “She’ll be finished with her first round by the end of the week.” Darby drew a deep breath and switched the phone from one hand to the other. “What is it exactly that you want to know, Mr. Orlean? What is it the company is taking issue with?”

      He sighed heavily, and something about the world-weary sound tickled a memory, triggered a gut-level response. She knew it was ridiculous, that she’d never met the insurance man who worked in the company’s Dallas office, but she knew that sigh...somehow.

      “We’re simply verifying the charges filed with us, cross-checking with standard treatment expenses, double-checking that your policy covers—”

      “You’re looking for fraud.” Even the hint that the company might try to deny her claims or cancel her insurance, take away her ability to pay for Savannah’s treatments, made her knees buckle, and she slid to the cold tile floor.

      “Well, we do have to be alert to the possibility of fraud, yes, but—”

      A buzzing rang in her ears, and she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, fighting to keep her breathing measured and even.

      Stay calm. Stay strong. I have nothing to hide, nothing to worry about...

      “But as I said, this is simply a policy review—”

      Darby groaned and dropped her head to her hands.

      “Ms. Kent, are you all right?” One of the nurse’s assistants squatted beside her in the corridor, laying a cool hand on her arm.

      Darby shook her head, searched for her voice. “No,” she rasped, wanting to deny everything about her current circumstances. “No, no, no.”

      No, her daughter couldn’t be sick, couldn’t be dying. No, she didn’t have the will, the strength left to fight an insurance company for the medical coverage they’d promised. No, she wasn’t all right. She hadn’t been truly right in almost five years, since Connor died.

      Tears prickled her sinuses and dripped on her cheeks. She waved the nurse’s assistant off with a tremulous smile, then wiped her face with a thumb. “I swear to you, Mr. Orlean. If something about the claims filed by the doctors or hospital is off, I’ll do my best to get things straightened out.” She heard the rustling of papers on the other end of the phone line. “To be honest, I haven’t paid close attention to what’s been filed and where claims stood. I’ve had my hands full just taking care of my daughter. Thank God I work for family, so I can get the time off—”

      “You changed jobs?” he interrupted, his tone not quite so nasal this time.

      “Uh...yes. Last January. Just before I bought the policy. But I am employed, if that is part of your concern. I won’t miss any premium payments.”

      “I—um, no. That’s not... You’re working for Mansfield Construction? But your art...um, your file says you are an artist.”

      She wrinkled her brow. If the company wasn’t concerned about her ability to pay her premiums, then what business was it of his where she was working?

      “Yes, I do the billing and clerical duties for Mansfield Construction. They’re a small company a friend owns.” While she’d much rather be doing something with her art for a living, working for Mansfield Construction gave her a steady income, health insurance and, because the owners were her daughter’s grandparents, understanding and job security when she needed time off to take care of Savannah—a benefit that had been particularly welcome since Savannah’s diagnosis a couple months ago.

      Mr. Orlean sighed again, and another hint of the familiar whispered down her neck. She shoved to her feet, feeling a bit stronger now, past the initial shock and dread of impending doom. She peeked in the room to check on Savannah, then pulled the door closed and resumed her position in the hospital’s corridor. “If that’s all, sir, I need to get back to my child—”

      “Wait! I...” He cleared his throat again. “I still need to verify some things to satisfy the company’s questions about your policy.”

      She straightened her spine, suddenly exhausted by the man’s endless