Ethan lay there, his chest rising and falling in a slow, unnatural rhythm.

I walked over and took his hand.

It felt warmer than usual, and as I squeezed, I felt a faint, distinct pressure return against my palm.

His eyelids fluttered, a tiny movement in the dark.

“I need more time,” I whispered to him, though he could not answer. “Just hold on.”

I tucked the burner phone back into my cardigan and smoothed down my skirt.

I had to go to the library.

The storm outside was battering the glass of the long gallery.

Rain streaked down the tall windows, blurring the lights of the boats on the Hudson River below.

The floorboards creaked under my slippers as I hurried toward the west wing.

The air in the Thornton estate always smelled of beeswax, old paper, and damp stone.

Tonight, it smelled of panic.

I reached the double oak doors of the library.

Two security guards stood outside, wearing the gold-and-black lapel pins of the Thornton estate.

“I am going inside,” I said, keeping my chin high.