He slowly lowered the phone from his ear.

The line was still active; I could hear the faint squawk of Victor Sterling’s voice coming from the speaker.

Daniel pressed the red button to end the call.

He stood there, the phone dangling from his fingers.

“Daniel?” I asked.

“What is it?”

He did not look at me.

He looked at the closed door of the hospital room, as if expecting someone to burst through it.

“Sterling,” Daniel whispered.

“He knows.”

My heart gave a hard, sudden thud against my ribs.

The hospital room felt very cold all of a sudden.

The plastic tube of the IV drip on my back of my hand ticked with a slow, regular rhythm.

“What does he know, Daniel?” I asked.

My voice sounded thin, like paper tearing.

Daniel did not move for a long time.

His fingers slowly unclenched, and the black smartphone slid onto the starched white sheets of my bed.

“He found the records from the Portland clinic,” Daniel said.

He looked toward the window, where the gray afternoon light of the city was beginning to fade.