Halloran exhales through her nose. “Fine. We’ll wait in the family lounge. Come get me the minute she’s done in Radiology.”
“We’ll be quick,” Gideon says.
I step closer to Minxy and offer my hand, palm up. “Come on, kiddo. We’ll knock this out and then you can be bored in one less room.”
Gideon steps back to make space for us. Halloran and the other woman head toward the right-hand hall, St. Helen’s badge swinging. One of them glances back once, then disappears around the bend.
We turn left.
The second they are out of sight, the air changes. My shoulders loosen half an inch. Gideon’s jaw unclenches.
“Straight ahead,” he murmurs. “Door at the end. Push bar.”
I guide Minxy down the quiet corridor. The walls here are bare; no art, no signs promising hope. Just beige paint and the buzz of fluorescent lights.
She glances up at me again, and her composure cracks. “You… you really came,” she says, breathless, barely audible.
I squeeze her hand. “Always.”
“Are you going to send me back?” she asks, her voice wavering.
“No,” Gideon answers behind us. “We’re taking you to your brother.”
She stops walking. Her hand spasms in mine. “Talon?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s waiting outside.”
Her eyes fill so fast it punches air out of my lungs. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” I tell her. “He came to us. He asked for help. We’re getting you out.”
She looks between us, breathing fast. “They said no one was coming.”
“They were wrong,” Gideon says. “Can you walk with us a little longer, Minx? Thirty more steps.”
We walk another ten, my pulse ticking hard in my ears.
Footsteps echo ahead.
A young tech rounds the corner carrying a stack of linens. Too soon. We’re out of position. There’s nowhere to duck without looking suspicious. Minxy’s hand clamps around mine hard.
“Morning,” the tech chirps, shifting the linens to one arm. She barely glances at us… until her eyes flick to Minxy’s wristband. “Oh—Radiology? They’re slammed today. Good luck getting in.”
I give her a tight, practiced smile. “We’ve got her routed early.”
“Lucky,” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “Wish they’d do that for my floor. Anyway—have a good one.”
She breezes past us without waiting for a reply.
But Minxy’s shoulders are rigid, breath stuttered, and Gideon’s jaw ticks once. Even after she disappears around the corner, we all stay frozen for a beat too long—just long enough to feel how fast this could fall apart.
Then Gideon murmurs, “Keep moving.”
Her shoulders shake once, like she is pushing something down. Then she nods and starts walking again. Her hand doesn’t leave mine.
We reach the emergency exit. There’s a small glass square at the top, wired. A red sticker warns about alarms and unauthorized access. I pull the card reader cover aside and swipe the badge from my pocket over the sensor. It’s cloned from an actual staff chip, courtesy of the teacher who knew our girl’s mom.
The light flicks from red to green. The lock clicks. No alarm screams.
