An hour later, the room was quiet and the lights had been dimmed.

Amelia was asleep in the clear plastic bassinet beside my bed, her tiny chest rising and falling.

The storm outside had settled into a steady, soft drizzle against the glass.

The door opened quietly, and Margaret stepped back inside the room.

She had discarded her wet coat, wearing her sharp grey blazer, though she still looked tired.

She walked over to the bassinet, her stern face softening for a fraction of a second as she looked at the baby.

“She looks like your mother,” Margaret said gently, stepping closer to my bed.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Did the police find him?”

Margaret pulled a vinyl chair up to the side of my bed and sat down.

She laid a blue folder on the bedside table.

“Not yet,” Margaret said. “But the temporary restraining order is fully active.”

“Is she safe here?” I asked, looking toward the door.

“Nathan is legally barred from coming within five hundred yards of you, Amelia, and the penthouse,” Margaret said. “And the guards outside won’t let anyone through.”