I looked down at my phone, which was still buzzing in my hand.

A third message appeared, this one containing a photo.

It was a picture of the back of a black SUV driving out of the hospital parking garage.

The license plate was partially obscured, but I knew the vehicle.

It belonged to Patricia.

I leaned against the wall, my knees buckling under my own weight.

My father was shouting at someone on his phone, his face red with anger.

“I want a checkpoint on every major exit!” he roared.

“Now!”

The nurse who had checked my vitals earlier rushed to my side, grabbing my arm.

“Hannah, you’re bleeding,” she said, looking at my hand.

I hadn’t even realized I was pressing my fingernails into my palms so hard the skin had broken.

“Where is my baby?” I whispered.

She didn’t answer; she just tried to guide me back toward the bed.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall opened with a quiet chime.

A tall, familiar figure stepped out, looking disheveled and pale.

It was Ethan.