I struggled, kicking wildly, but the grip was iron.

“Quiet,” a voice whispered in my ear.

It wasn’t Liam.

It was a voice I had heard only once before, during the long nights in the clinic.

The grip loosened slightly, and I was spun around to face my captor.

The light from the burning building caught the sharp, angular features of Detective Maren Holt.

She wasn’t holding her badge.

She was holding a gun.

And her eyes were fixed on the ledger in my arms.

“I’ll take that, Audrey,” she said softly.

Before I could speak, a sudden, loud crash came from the boarded window above us.

Glass and wood showered down onto the gravel.

A figure tumbled out of the opening, landing hard on the ground.

It was Liam, his face bloody, his clothes smoking.

He struggled to his knees, looking around wildly.

“Audrey!” he gasped.

Holt didn’t look at him.

She kept the gun pointed directly at my chest, her finger tightening on the trigger.

And then, the phone in her coat pocket began to vibrate, the bright screen illuminating her face from below.