Luke lowered the phone slowly, his eyes fixed on the wet asphalt ahead.

“They hung up,” he said to Marco.

“It was a burner number,” he added.

I felt a cold sweat break out across my neck, the heater of the SUV suddenly feeling suffocating.

The vibration of the engine hummed through my spine, keeping me anchored to the present.

I squeezed Luke’s sleeve with what little strength remained in my fingers.

“Luke,” I whispered, my throat feeling like it was coated in ash.

He leaned down immediately, his face inches from mine.

“I’m here, Elena,” he said, brushing a damp lock of hair from my forehead.

“Don’t try to talk,” he added. “We are almost at St. Catherine’s.”

“No,” I gasped, the tears finally leaking from the corners of my eyes.

“I have to tell you,” I said.

My chest felt incredibly tight, like a heavy band of iron was winding around my ribs.

“It was your father,” I said, the words spilling out before the darkness could take me again.

Luke stiffened, his hand freezing against my cheek.

“Arthur?” he asked.