There was no playfulness in her voice. No imagination. Just raw fear.
I was shaking from exhaustion, my body still buzzing from pain, my hospital gown clinging damply to my skin. The room carried that sharp hospital smell mixed with the soft scent of a newborn. Nurses had just taken my son for routine checks. My husband, Mark Reynolds, had stepped out to answer a phone call.
It was just Emily and me.
“Emily,” I murmured weakly, trying to reassure her, “what are you talking about?”
She shook her head hard. “There’s no time. Please, Mom. They’re coming.”
“They?” I echoed.
Her eyes flicked toward the door. She squeezed my hand, her fingers icy.
“I heard Grandma on the phone. She said everything would be ‘handled’ today. She said you wouldn’t be a problem anymore.”
My heart slammed violently in my chest.
