The second his Jaguar left the driveway, I stopped being the sedated wife. I grabbed hidden keys, climbed out the back window into the freezing rain, and ran three blocks to an old car I had bought with cash.
Riverside Medical Center blurred past me in neon and panic.
If Ryan reached Sophie first, he would make it look like a medical complication.
I reached the fourth floor and hurried toward Room 412.
Through the glass, I saw Sophie lying beside the machines.
And beside her IV stood a man in a white coat, mask, and cap.
Ryan.
He pulled a vial from his pocket and filled a syringe with clear liquid.
I shoved the door open.
“Doctor,” I said.
Ryan froze.
His eyes widened above the mask.
“Emma,” he breathed.
“If you push that plunger,” I said, locking the door behind me, “I will scream loud enough to wake this entire floor. And everyone will wonder why a grieving father is injecting the only survivor of his children’s crash.”
For five seconds, we stared at each other.
