When Hannah finally looked me in the eyes, she whispered six words that made me realize my own family had planned everything.

The two guards moved forward with practiced, silent efficiency.

My mind raced. We were on the fourth floor of St. Jude’s Memorial. The main elevators were watched, the stairwells were likely covered, and my family’s money had already greased the palms of the night administration.

“Touch her and I’ll scream,” I warned, stepping directly into the path of the first guard—a heavy-set man with a broken nose.

“Scream all you want, Miss Linwood,” Gareth said, pulling a folded white paper from his coat. “Your mother already informed hospital security that your sister is experiencing a severe postpartum-onset psychosis and that you are aiding her delusion. The police won't help you. The staff won't help you.”

The first guard reached for my shoulder to shove me out of the way.

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from the bedside table and shattered it against the side of his head.

The guard let out a muffled grunt, staggering backward, blood spraying from a gash on his cheek as he crashed into the heart monitor. The machine hit the floor with a loud, metallic bang, its alarm screaming a high-pitched emergency tone.

“You crazy bitch!” Gareth roared, rushing forward.

“Hannah, get up!” I screamed.

Hannah yanked the IV line from her arm, wincing as a drop of blood welled on her skin, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. I grabbed the heavy metal IV pole and swung it wildly in a broad arc, striking the second guard across the chest and forcing him back through the open doorway into the corridor.

“Security! Code Blue Room 412!” I yelled at the top of my lungs into the hallway.

Nurses and orderlies down the hall looked up in alarm as the emergency alarm blared. Taking advantage of the sudden chaos, I grabbed Hannah’s hand, pulled her out of the room, and slammed the heavy oak door shut, jamming the metal IV pole through the double handles to lock Gareth and his men inside.

From inside the room, heavy thuds rattled the door as Gareth’s guards threw their weight against the wood.

“This way!” I hissed, pulling Hannah down the service corridor toward the back of the building.

Hannah was clutching her stomach, her breath coming in short, agonizing gasps. Her white sweater was torn, her bare feet slipping on the slick linoleum floor.

“Clara… I can’t run,” she gasped, her face deathly pale. “The contractions… they started twenty minutes ago.”

My heart plummeted into my throat. She was only thirty-four weeks along. The stress, the trauma under the dining table, the physical assault—it had pushed her into premature labor.

“Just a little further,” I begged, slinging her arm over my shoulder and taking most of her weight. “We just need to reach the parking garage.”

We pushed through the double doors leading to the service stairwell. The air was cold and drafty, smelling of damp concrete and industrial cleaner. We scrambled down four flights of stairs, the heavy metal door above us suddenly bursting open as Gareth’s men broke out of Room 412.

“They’re in the stairwell!” a voice echoed down the concrete shaft.

“Faster, Hannah!” I whispered.

We burst through the ground-floor exit into the dimly lit basement parking structure. My old sedan was parked fifty yards away near the ventilation shafts.

I fumbled with my keys, unlocking the doors with a sharp clack-clack. I shoved Hannah into the passenger seat, slammed her door, and scrambled into the driver’s seat just as two men in suits sprinted out of the stairwell entrance.

I slammed my foot on the gas pedal.

The engine roared to life. The tires screeched against the smooth concrete as I threw the car into reverse, swinging the rear bumper around and barely missing the first guard. I shifted into drive, floored the accelerator, and smashed through the flimsy plastic parking barrier, bursting out into the freezing Chicago rain.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Gareth standing under the bright fluorescent lights of the garage entrance, holding his phone to his ear, his face twisted in absolute rage.

The rain beat against my windshield like a barrage of tiny bullets.