We took the stairs to the second floor, our wet shoes squeaking on the concrete steps.

The administrative wing was quiet, the carpeted floors muffled compared to the pediatric ward.

Through the glass double doors of the executive suite, I could see Marla Hensley.

She was standing behind her large mahogany desk, shoving papers into a brown leather briefcase.

Her face was flushed, her hair slightly disheveled compared to her neat appearance earlier.

Miller pushed the double doors open without knocking.

Marla jumped, dropping a stack of folders onto her desk.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice shrill. “This office is closed to visitors.”

“Marla Hensley?” Miller asked, stepping forward.

“Yes,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height. “And I want you out of my office immediately.”

“I am Special Agent Miller with the FBI,” he said, displaying his credentials.

Marla’s eyes flicked to the badge, then to me standing behind him.

Her pale skin turned a sickly shade of gray.

“I don’t care who you are,” she said, though her voice trembled. “You have no right to enter this space.”