I forced myself to stand upright, clutching my tote bag tightly against my side.

I needed to reach the entrance.

I needed to get inside the security perimeter where the agents were waiting.

The black SUV pulled up to the curb just yards away, its engine idling with a low, menacing purr.

The rear door clicked open.

A figure stepped out onto the sidewalk, blocking my path to the clinic doors.

It was Chloe Vance.

She wore a beige trench coat and dark sunglasses, though the sky was overcast.

Her right hand was buried deep in her coat pocket, pointing a hard, blunt shape directly at my stomach.

“Keep walking toward the car, Natalie,” she said.

Her voice was flat, devoid of the bubbly cadence she used when she played the doting sister-in-law.

I took a step back, but my heel caught on the edge of the concrete planter.

Another spasm of pain tore through my lower back, making my knees buckle.

Chloe caught my arm, her grip like a steel vise.

She leaned in close, her breath smelling of peppermint and stale coffee.