It wasn’t the low purr of the SUV.

It was the smooth, heavy rumble of a high-end luxury vehicle.

Chloe’s face went pale.

“That’s not Julian,” she whispered.

She ran to the small window near the door, peering through the grime.

My heart stopped.

Through the dusty pane, I saw a sleek, black town car pull up next to the SUV.

The driver of our SUV got out, immediately raising his hands in surrender.

Two men in dark suits, different from the federal agents at the clinic, stepped out of the town car.

They were Victoria’s personal security detail.

Then, the rear door of the town car opened.

A pair of black leather heels stepped onto the gravel.

Victoria Callahan emerged, her wool coat immaculate, her expression cold and unreadable.

She didn’t look like a grandmother coming to save her family.

She looked like an executioner.

“She tracked us,” Chloe whispered, her hand shaking as she raised her gun.

“She’s going to kill us both,” I said, a wave of cold dread washing over me, sharper than any labor pain.