“Then explain it to me,” I said, taking another step toward her and extending my hand. “Give me the phone, Benson. Let me see who is calling you.”

She lunged suddenly, but not at me.

She grabbed her heavy black wool coat from the armchair.

Her arm knocked over a metal tray of medical instruments on the bedside table.

The metal clattered loudly against the floor, scalpels, sterile gauze, and glass vials scattering across the polished wood.

In her haste, her large leather purse slid off the table, spilling its contents.

A small black flip phone skitted across the floor, stopping right at the edge of the rug near my feet.

Benson gasped, looking down at the phone, then up at me.

I stepped forward, my shoe pinning the edge of the phone to the floor.

She didn’t try to retrieve it.

Panic had taken over her face entirely, her lips trembling as she stared at me.

“If you tell Vivian,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “you won’t survive this either.”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

She grabbed her coat, turned on her heel, and ran out of the bedroom.