“We are almost there, Lauren,” he said, looking straight into my eyes.

It was the first time he had said my name.

I looked at his face, trying to find my mother’s eyes in his, but they were different.

They were dark and full of a quiet anger that scared me just a little.

The car moved quickly through the snowy Chicago streets, the yellow streetlights blurring against the glass.

Within minutes, we pulled up to the emergency entrance of St. Anne’s.

The red neon sign cast a bright, bloody glow over the snowbanks outside.

Ethan carried me through the sliding glass doors and into the bright lobby.

The air inside smelled like bleach, old coffee, and wet coats.

He walked straight to the high reception desk, his boots clicking on the tile.

“Mary Grace Fitzgerald,” Ethan said to the nurse behind the glass. “Where is she?”

The nurse looked at his expensive coat, then at my tangled hair and dirty face.

“Are you family?” she asked, her voice cautious.

“I am,” Ethan said.

He did not hesitate.