I saw the raw panic in his eyes.

He looked at the gurney, then at my stomach, then at the briefcase in his hand.

He took a step toward the ambulance.

Before he could take another, the door to the lobby stairwell flung open.

The two police officers stepped out into the garage, their flashlights cutting through the gloom.

“Nathan Crane!” one of the officers shouted.

“Stop right there!” the officer said.

Nathan didn’t hesitate.

He turned and bolted back toward his car, dropping the briefcase onto the wet concrete.

The latch broke, and dozens of papers slid out into the dirty water.

I saw the blue seal of the Crane family trust logo on one of the sheets before the wind blew it away.

Nathan scrambled into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

The engine roared to life.

The tires spun, sending a spray of water toward the officers as the sedan sped up the ramp.

“We have a runner!” the officer yelled into his radio.

The paramedic slammed the back doors of the ambulance shut, blocking out the sound of the sirens.