“He did not waste any time,” Arthur said softly, looking at the screen.

“Callum did not do this from a distance,” I said. “He had to be sure.”

Suddenly, the light in the hallway flickered once, then twice.

The soft hum of the clinic’s ventilation system died, replaced by a heavy, breathless silence.

The emergency backup lights kicked on, casting a dim, amber glow across the room.

My phone on the bedside table lit up.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I swiped the screen.

The message was only five words long: *I know which room, Avery.*

I looked at the door.

The shadow of a man appeared against the frosted glass.

The handle rattled.

I did not move.

Arthur Vance took a step toward the corner of the bed, his hand slipping inside his coat pocket where he kept the duplicate key to the clinic’s private files.

The frosted glass showed the silhouette shifting, leaning closer to the latch.

Then, the brass handle turned with a slow, heavy click.

The door swung open.

Callum stood in the frame, his dark wool overcoat damp from the Chicago rain.