“She’s here. I watched her walk in.”
Wrong choice of words.The woman’s suspicion spikes. “We have no patient matching that name in our system. And evenif we did, I couldn’t give you access without prior authorization from the patient herself.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I snarl. “I’m her fucking husband. I’m supposed to meet her here.”
“Sir, I understand you’re concerned, but I need you to calm down. Without authorization?—”
“Listen to me.” I lean across the counter and thrust my face in hers. “A man just entered through your side door. Tall, dark hair, dark jacket. Did you see him?”
“Our side entrance is for staff only,” she insists. “It requires a keycard.”
“Well, someone got through it.”
“That’s not possible?—”
“I’m telling you what I saw, goddammit!” My hands are gripping the edge of the counter so hard that the laminate creaks and starts to bend. “There’s a pregnant woman in there who might be in danger. You can either help me find her, or you can explain to the police why you stood here arguing about fuckingauthorizationwhile something bad happened to her.”
The receptionist’s face goes pale. Her hand drifts toward the phone on her desk. Whether it’s to call security or the cops, I don’t know and I don’t care.
“Which room?” I demand.
“Sir, I can’t?—”
“Which. Fucking. Room?”
A muffled sound echoes from somewhere down the hallway. It could be anything. A door slamming. Equipment falling.
Or a scream, cut short.
Fuck this bullshit.I turn and run.
The receptionist yells after me, but I don’t listen. The hallways blur past me in streaks of beige and white. Exam rooms branch off in every direction, identical doors with meaningless numbers, and I have no clue which one she’s behind.
“Eliana!” I shout, not caring who hears. “Eliana!”
A nurse flattens herself against the wall as I barrel past. Someone screams. I still don’t stop.
Then I hear a crash, followed by a sob.Hersob. Coming from behind a door at the end of the corridor.
Without breaking stride, I hit the door at full speed, shoulder first. The cheap lock gives way like it was made of papier-mâché. The whole frame explodes inward and, through the wreckage, I take in the scene in a single snapshot: Eliana on the floor in a shredded paper gown, half-naked, her spine pressed against the exam table, one arm wrapped protectively around her belly. Ultrasound photos are scattered around her like fallen leaves. And there’s a man standing over her, belt in hand, zipper down, turning toward me with murder in his eyes.
My anger goes fucking supernova.
“That’s the last mistake you’ll ever make, motherfucker.”
I charge across the room and snatch up the man by the throat before he can even raise his hands to defend himself. His beltfalls to the floor as I slam him against the wall hard enough to crack the paint.
“Bastian—!” Eliana chokes out behind me.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Words have ceased to exist. There’s only the red haze and the feel of this man’s windpipe under my fingers and the primal need to destroy.
My punch connects with his face once, twice, three times. Cartilage crunches. Blood sprays across my knuckles. He tries to swing back, but I’m faster, meaner, and I’ve been doing this since I was old enough to form a fist.
I hit him until his legs buckle. Then I follow him down to the floor, straddle his chest, and keep punching. His head bounces off the tile, the sound of impact wetter and wetter with every repetition.
He gurgles something unintelligible through the blood pooling in his mouth. “Pl-pl-plea?—”
I hit him again.
