My father took the device from my hand.

His eyes narrowed as he read the words, his jaw tightening into a hard, pale line.

“He’s here,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Dad, he has Owen. Or he thinks he can get to him.”

“He doesn’t have Owen,” my father said, his voice deadly calm. “Owen is upstairs in the secure nursery with two guards.”

He handed the phone back to me.

“Stay here with Detective Miller,” he said.

“No,” I said, grabbing his sleeve. “I’m coming with you.”

“Hannah, you’re still recovering,” he said, looking down at my hospital gown and the plastic ID band on my wrist.

“I don’t care,” I said. “He is my husband. I need to face him.”

Detective Miller stepped forward, resting a hand on his utility belt.

“I’ll come with you to the elevator bay,” Miller said. “But let’s keep this quiet. We don’t want a panic in the wards.”

We walked down the long, sterile corridor toward the sliding glass doors that led to the parking garage.

The smell of bleach and old coffee hung thick in the air.