“Is Lily going to be safe?” I asked, looking toward the inner office where my daughter slept in her carrier.

“She is safe,” Grace said. “But you need to be strong now, Vivian. Margaret is not Adrian. She doesn’t use tantrums; she uses scalpels.”

I went into the inner office to check on Lily.

She was fast asleep, her tiny fists curled near her cheeks, breathing softly.

I kissed her forehead, smelling the sweet, milky scent of her skin, and closed the door until it was just cracked open.

The next twenty minutes felt like twenty years.

The rain began to tap against the glass, a steady, gray drizzle that blurred the Manhattan skyline.

Below us, the streetlights reflected off the wet asphalt like spilled ink.

I poured myself a glass of water from the carafe, but my hand shook so much the water spilled onto the desk.

I wiped it up with a tissue, my chest tightening with every passing second.

Then, the intercom buzzed.

Grace’s receptionist spoke, her voice shaking slightly.

“Ms. Monroe, Mrs. Margaret Whitmore is here to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment.”