This time, the caller ID showed Clara’s room at the hospital.

My heart leaped into my throat.

I swiped the screen and put the phone to my ear.

“Clara?” I said.

There was no answer, only the sound of heavy breathing.

Then, a voice I knew all too well spoke through the receiver.

“Hello, Madeline,” Julian said.

“Where is Clara?” I demanded, my hand shaking against the phone.

“She’s sleeping,” Julian said, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of warmth.

“You shouldn’t be in that room,” I said. “The police—”

“The police aren’t here, Madeline,” he interrupted.

“I’m looking at her right now,” he said. “She looks so fragile in that bed.”

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

“Don’t touch her,” I said.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” Julian said. “I want her to come home.”

“She is never going back to you,” I said.

“We’ll see about that,” he said. “I hear you’ve had some trouble at your bakery tonight.”

“You did that,” I said.

“A shame,” he murmured. “An electrical fire hazard, I believe they called it.”