The rain was pouring down over Charlotte, blurring the streetlights into long streaks of yellow and red.

Down in the parking lot, a black SUV sat idling near the emergency entrance.

Its headlights were turned off, but the exhaust pipe coughed white steam into the cold air.

I recognized the license plate frame. It was a Prescott company vehicle.

“They’re watching the entrance,” I murmured.

“Mom,” Emily said, her voice rising in panic.

I turned around.

The frosted glass window of her hospital room door showed the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man.

He was standing right outside, his shadow falling across the glass like a stain.

The door handle began to move downward, very slowly.

The handle clicked.

I stepped behind the door, my hand slipping inside my jacket to grip the butt of my service weapon.

The door pushed open slowly, sticking slightly on the linoleum floor.

A man in a dark gray suit stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the bed immediately.

It was Brandon Prescott.

“Where is she, Hart?” he asked, his voice low and tight.