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“And I’m afraid you just came into the wrong room, nurse,” the man in the suit says, his tone sharp, gaze cold as ice.

“I work here. Visiting hours are over. If I have to, I will call security and have them escort you from the premises.”

“Go ahead and call for security,” the man in the suit replies. “I guarantee they won’t answer.”

“Why is that?”

“Because they are otherwise occupied.” He nods toward the second man. He rushes toward me, and I turn to run. “He—” A hand slams over my mouth as I’m yanked back against a hard chest.

“Now, where were we?” the man in the suit says. “Oh yes. That’s right. You were just about to go to sleep.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a bottle of pills.

I fight against the iron hold pinning me, knowing good and darn well that whatever is in that bottle will be the end of Mr. Prescott.

“Take these, or I’ll kill the girl right here for you to see.” He glances over at me. “She does look oddly familiar, doesn’t she, José?”

“She does,” he replies. “I think we might have found the girl we’re looking for.”

“That’s what I’m thinking, too. How handy it was for you to wander in here…Dahlia Swanson.”

Adrenaline surges through my system, and I shoot up off of the couch, the memory assaulting me.

“He was there,” I say shakily.

“Who was?” Ryker is right there in front of me, his hands on my shoulders. “Talk to me, Dahlia.”

“That man, the one you were looking at. He was—” I trail off as more memories hit me.

“That’s what I thought. We have some business with you, too. So nice of you to save us the time of trying to find you.” He turns back to Mr. Prescott. “Now, for once, do as you’re told. Maybe I’ll let her live.” He holds out the bottle, and Mr. Prescott lifts a shaking hand.

“No. No. He’s—” Reality blurs with the memory, and tears stream down my cheeks.

“You shouldn’t have come, dear Dahlia,” Mr. Prescott says sadly. “Please know that I am so very sorry for everything. And I have loved you since I knew you existed.”

He raises his shaking hand to his mouth and slips the pills inside.

“Good man,” the man in the suit replies as Mr. Prescott washes them down with a glass of water.

I continue to fight. If I can just get my mouth free, I can scream. Surely security will come running, and we can get him to the hospital. Then we can pump his stomach.

I just have to—the grip loosens just enough that I can open my mouth.

I bite down on the hand, and copper fills my mouth.

Bile surges, and I throw up, heaving forward.

Someone yanks my hair back, and I stare up at the man in the suit. “Scream and José will shoot anyone who comes through that door. So go ahead and think on your choices before making them.”

“Smart.” He reaches up and grabs a tissue from the box beside Mr. Prescott’s bed. “Clean yourself up.” He throws it at me, so I wipe my chin as I’m yanked to my feet.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Mr. Prescott offers me a simple smile, then turns back toward the other man. “You will not get away with this.”

“I already have.” He turns toward me. “Now we have to deal with you, Dear Dahlia,” he says with a sneer. “I have to say, what luck⁠—”

Fire blazes in my veins. I slam my heel down on top of José’s foot, then throw my elbow back into his nose. Bone crunches, and he mutters a string of words my grandmother would have washed his mouth out for.

But I don’t wait to hear the rest of them because I’m already sprinting toward the door.