Page 3

The air is thick with the scent of damp wood and rust, the stale breath of a place that hasn’t seen life in ages. It sticks in the back of my throat.

And now it has us.

A lantern’s soft glow barely reaches the corners, leaving heavy shadows.

I scan the scene instinctively, like assessing an emergency room. A folding table, the lantern. Two knives laid parallel, handles facing out, ready for use. Coils of rope, thick and unyielding. A black duffel bag slouches to one side, collapsed and empty.

Waiting.

The word surfaces without permission, and I shove it back down, but my chest has already tightened, ribs contracting as if trying to shrink.

Morgan props me against a beam by the table’s edge. The rough, splintered wood digs into my scrubs.

I exhale through clenched teeth, partly from discomfort, partly because I have to remind myself to breathe. My legs buckle easily. The cold ground seeps in instantly.

I track Evan from the corner of my eye, never directly, just aware, the way I would with something dangerous.

He moves along the light’s edge, owning the space, the gun resting casually in his hand, an extension of his arm.

My mouth still holds copper’s sharp tang. My pulse, once a slow underwater thud, is now jumpy and erratic, like a faulty wire spitting sparks.

Ask him. The thought appears from the practical part still managing damage control. Keep him talking. Talking means he’s not doing anything else.

“Why are you doing this?” My voice is rougher than I intended. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. “Charlie’s safe. The adoption’s final.”

Evan freezes.

The silence stretches so long I doubt he’ll answer. Then he turns, the lantern lighting his face from below, and his smile sends a chill straight through me.

“You think I’m here for custody.” It’s not a question. It’s worse, like he’s amused, as if I’ve said something impressively dumb. “You think this is about Charlie.”

He steps closer. I stay still. I force myself to stay still.

“I’m here,” he says, “because Morgan took what was mine.” He pauses, his amusement curdling into something raw. “She took my daughter. My future.”

Another step. His breathing is a rough, uneven sound, like tearing fabric. His eyes have a feverish shine to them, lit with a conviction that’s worse than anger or grief.

“Some people are flawed,” he says, his voice gaining a rhythmic, practiced cadence. “They’re weak. They can’t raise a child right. I was saving Charlie from that. From her. I was making our family pure.”

The word hits my stomach like a stone. I sense Morgan shift beside me, her fingers grazing my scrub top with gentle precision near my collar. I keep my gaze on Evan.

A soft click and she frees my hospital ID from the lanyard. I stay still, not glancing down.

Evan talks, circling, his voice shifting—righteous, wounded, and contemptuous. “They called me insane. You know that? Locked me away, called me insane,” he repeats. “Like I was the problem. Like I was broken.”

He laughs once, a short, dry bark of a sound.

“I was saving them,” he continues, his voice dipping into a hushed whisper. That’s the part that unnerves me most, not how loud it is, but how it can loom so large with its quiet intensity. It’s a certainty that doesn’t need to shout because it’s never questioned itself. “Every single one of them. I was saving them.”

“You’re not saving anyone.”

Morgan’s voice is level and cool. I sense her stillness, the quiet of someone who’s resolved and waiting to act.

Evan’s head jerks toward her, and the gun comes up, fluid and natural, steady at her chest. His hand is rock solid.

“You’re in my way,” he says, calm but charged.

My grip tightens on the jagged edge of the badge.