“Check if the active accounts match the death certificate dates.”

I paused, listening to the quiet hallway outside.

A pair of heavy footsteps approached the door.

They stopped just outside.

I held my breath.

The shadow of two feet appeared under the crack of the door.

I stared at the brass handle, waiting to see if it would turn again.

The shadow under the door remained still for five agonizing seconds.

My heart hammered against my ribs, the rhythm matching the rapid beep of the fetal monitor still wheeled in the corner.

Then, the shadow shifted.

The squeak of rubber soles on waxed linoleum faded down the corridor.

I let out a long, slow breath and wiped my damp palm against the hospital sheet.

My phone buzzed in my hand, the vibration sharp against my thumb.

A text message appeared on the secure screen.

“Rachel? Is this really you?”

It was Claire.

“It’s me,” I typed back. “I’m using a secure proxy. I wouldn’t contact you if it wasn’t urgent.”

“You’ve been off the grid since you left the agency,” Claire wrote. “What is going on?”