“He knows we are getting close,” Charles replied, staring straight at the snowy road ahead.

His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his leather gloves creaked.

The wipers scraped across the windshield, clearing the heavy, wet flakes that tried to blind us.

Every red light we passed felt like an eternity.

My mother had been in that private facility under an assumed name for months.

Only a few people knew she was there.

“Trevor,” I muttered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “Trevor told him.”

“The manager?” Charles asked, his eyes darting to me for a fraction of a second.

“Yes. He has access to my employment files. He knew where my mother’s medical bills were sent.”

Charles didn’t answer, but his jaw clenched.

He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and the heavy sedan roared through the quiet, snowy streets.

We swerved into the parking lot of the St. Jude Private Clinic a few minutes later.

The building was a gray concrete block, illuminated by harsh blue security lights.

I didn’t wait for Charles to park fully before I unbuckled my seatbelt.