“Not yet,” she said, pushing past me.

“We need to move her to the ICU as soon as she is stable enough.”

I looked down at the phone in my hand.

Another text message popped up on the screen.

It was from the same unknown number.

“The nursery is almost finished.”

My stomach turned over.

She wasn’t talking about our apartment.

We hadn’t even painted the baby’s room yet.

She was talking about her own house.

The old Victorian home on the edge of the city.

The house I had spent my childhood trying to escape.

I looked at the exit sign at the end of the hallway.

The green light seemed to pulse in the dim corridor.

If I stayed here, I could do nothing but wait.

If I went to her house, I might find the evidence to lock her away forever.

I had to get there before she realized the hospital had identified the poison.

I walked slowly toward the elevator, trying not to draw attention.

My boots squeaked on the wet tile floor.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.