Two police officers in yellow raincoats stepped inside, water dripping from their hats.

“Mr. Vance?” one of the officers asked, his voice booming over the storm.

“Yes,” Mr. Vance said, stepping forward.

“We received the call about a domestic disturbance and potential financial fraud in unit forty-B,” the officer said.

“The suspect is believed to be Nathan Crane,” the officer said.

Margaret stepped away from my side for a brief moment.

“I am Margaret Crane, the family attorney,” she said.

“The suspect has fled the scene,” Margaret said.

“He is driving a black sedan, local plates,” she said.

“His accomplice, Sloane Vale, is still upstairs in the penthouse,” Margaret said.

The officer nodded, pulling out a notepad that was already getting dotted with rain.

“We have units stationed at the bridge exits,” the officer said.

“But the storm is making visibility near zero,” he said.

A fresh contraction hit me, and I screamed, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the lobby.

The paramedic grabbed the handles of the gurney.

“We have to go now,” the paramedic said.

“We can’t wait for the police report,” he said.