The heavy door hissed as the pressure seal broke. Clinton pushed it open and stepped into the VIP suite.

The room looked like a war zone. Expensive toys were scattered across the floor. The screen of a tablet was shattered into pieces near the sofa.

Cassidy Sinclair stood on the wide windowsill. She was seven years old, wearing a hospital gown that was too big for her. Her bare feet gripped the marble edge. She held a heavy glass vase in her small hands, aiming it at the two nurses standing near the bed.

The nurses looked terrified. One held a tray with cold food. The other held a small cup of pills.

Clinton waved his hand. The nurses quickly left the room, closing the door behind them.

Clinton unbuttoned his suit jacket. He unclipped his holster and placed his gun inside the wall safe near the door. The metal locked with a loud click.

He walked toward the window. His heavy boots crushed the broken glass of the tablet. It made a terrible grinding sound.

Cassidy raised the vase higher. Her knuckles were white. She bit her lower lip so hard it looked like it might bleed.

Clinton did not stop. He pulled a chair to the center of the room and sat down. He spread his legs and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Jumping from the second floor won't kill you," Clinton said, his voice flat. "It will just break both your legs. Then you'll be stuck in that bed for months."

Cassidy froze. The threat confused her. The anger drained out of her face, replaced by a sudden rush of tears. Her lower lip trembled.

Clinton sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a squashed caramel pop. The cheap plastic wrapper was wrinkled and faded.

He tossed it onto the carpet. "Take your pills, and you get the garbage candy your nutritionist hates."

Cassidy stared at the candy. She swallowed hard. She looked at the vase in her hands, then back at the candy.

She slammed the vase down onto the sofa cushions. She jumped off the windowsill. Her bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud.

Clinton stood up fast. He grabbed her around the waist before she could step on the broken glass. He lifted her easily and dropped her onto the center of the hospital bed.

Cassidy snatched the plastic cup of pills from the bedside table. She threw them into her mouth and swallowed them dry. She started coughing violently, her face turning red.

Clinton patted her back. His hand was huge and rough, but the pats were gentle. He ripped the wrapper off the caramel pop and shoved it into her mouth.

The coughing stopped. The sweet taste of caramel filled her mouth. Cassidy's tense shoulders dropped. She leaned back against the pillows.

Clinton looked at her pale face. Her eyes looked exactly like Helen's. A sharp ache twisted in his chest.

"Am I going to be locked in this white box forever?" Cassidy asked around the candy. Her voice was small and broken.

Clinton looked away. He bent down and started picking up the broken pieces of the tablet. He didn't want her to see his face. While his eyes were averted, Cassidy's small hand darted out. Her fingers closed around a sharp, sturdy metal screw attached to a piece of the shattered casing. She quickly hid it under her thigh, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Cassidy leaned over the edge of the bed. She grabbed the back of Clinton's shirt. She pulled it hard.

"When is my dad coming?" she asked.

Clinton's hand stopped moving. A sharp piece of glass sliced deep into his index finger. Blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the carpet.

He grabbed a tissue from the table and wrapped it tight around his finger.

"Mr. Sinclair is in Europe," Clinton said. His voice was completely empty of emotion. "He is handling an important merger."

The light in Cassidy's eyes died. She let go of his shirt. She rolled over, turning her back to him, and pulled the blanket over her head.

Clinton stared at the small lump under the covers. There was nothing he could say. He threw the bloody tissue and the glass into the trash.

The radio on his belt beeped. A red light flashed. A guard's voice came through the speaker. "Sir, emergency call from Europe. You need to take this on a secure line."

Clinton walked to the bed. He pulled the metal guardrails up. They locked into place with a loud clack. It sounded exactly like a cage closing.

He walked to the door and looked back at the bed. He hit the dimmer switch on the wall, dropping the room into shadows.

He stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged.

A guard handed him a black encrypted phone. Clinton looked at the caller ID. His jaw tightened.

He cursed under his breath and walked quickly toward the fire stairwell at the end of the hall.

He did not see Catherine standing in the dark alcove near the ice machine, watching his every move.

Clinton pushed the heavy metal fire door open. It slammed shut behind him, cutting off the bright lights and the security cameras of the hallway.

He stood in the dim stairwell and unlocked the encrypted phone. The harsh blue light from the screen lit up his face. The message was clear: European authorities were raiding the Geneva office for antitrust violations.

Clinton dialed the emergency line. "Initiate Protocol B," he said quickly. "Burn the secondary files."

He hung up.

The fire door creaked open.

Clinton spun around. His hand dropped to the small knife hidden at his lower back.

Martha Holloway stood in the doorway. She was wearing a gray maid's uniform. She was empty-handed and out of breath, as if she had been running down the hallway searching for him.

Clinton let go of the knife. His muscles relaxed slightly, but his eyes stayed hard.

Martha gasped. She clutched the doorframe for support, her chest heaving.

Clinton stepped forward, his expression sharp. "You shouldn't leave the room, Martha. The protocol says no blind spots."

Martha's eyes were red. "She threw up. Her gown is ruined. I buzzed the nurses' station for warm water and towels, but no one came."

Clinton's face softened for a second. He set his hand down on the cold metal railing and rubbed his forehead.

Martha stepped closer. She kept her voice low. "When is he coming back, Clinton? When is Mr. Sinclair going to look at his own daughter?"

"Don't question his schedule," Clinton snapped. "He has thousands of employees relying on him."

"Money doesn't hold a child when she's crying!" Martha hissed. "She is terrified. She needs her mother."

The word hit Clinton like a bullet. He stepped into Martha's space, backing her against the cold cinderblock wall.

"Do not say that word in this hospital," Clinton growled.

Martha lifted her chin. She did not look away. "If he hadn't backed Helen into a corner, she wouldn't have left. He broke this family."

"She chose to jump on that boat!" Clinton yelled, his voice echoing in the stairwell. "She abandoned her kid!"

"She had no choice and you know it!" Martha yelled back.

The silence that followed was deafening. The only sound was the low hum of the air conditioning vent above them.

Clinton stepped back. He leaned against the metal railing. He pulled a crushed pack of Marlboros from his pocket. He put a cigarette between his lips but didn't light it.

"You're right," Clinton whispered. "The kid is drowning in this family."

Martha sighed. She wiped her wet eyes with the back of her hand. "Just call him. Tell him to call her."

Martha reached for the door handle.

Suddenly, the radio on his belt screamed. A high-pitched alarm echoed off the concrete walls.

"Sir!" a guard yelled through the static. "Vitals monitor disconnected! The room is empty!"

The unlit cigarette fell from Clinton's mouth.

He lunged forward and shoved the heavy fire door open with massive force. The metal edge caught Martha off guard. She cried out in pain as the sudden impact threw her off balance, sending her stumbling hard against the concrete wall. She dropped to her knees on the landing, dazed.

Clinton didn't look back. He sprinted down the hallway. His boots slipped on the polished floor. His mind flashed with images of rival families and kidnappers.

He reached the VIP suite. Two guards were standing by the door, looking panicked. Clinton shoved them aside. His bandaged index finger throbbed as he jammed the override code into the keypad.

He kicked the door open. It hit the wall with a loud bang. He pulled his knife and stepped inside, ready to fight.

The room was empty.

The bed rails were still up, but the metal locking pin that held the top rail in place had been pried loose—the sharp edge of the screw from the shattered tablet casing still jammed into the mechanism.

A pillow was stuffed under the blanket to look like a body.

Clinton ran to the window. It was locked.

He spun around and looked up. The metal grate of the HVAC vent on the ceiling was pushed aside. A small piece of blue hospital fabric hung from the sharp edge of the metal.

Clinton grabbed his radio. "Lock down the building!" he roared. "Nobody gets in or out! We lost her!"

Cassidy dragged her body through the dark, narrow HVAC duct. The metal was freezing. Dust coated her throat, making her want to cough, but she bit her hand to keep quiet.

The sharp edges of the metal joints scraped against her bare knees. Warm blood trickled down her legs, but she didn't stop moving.

She looked down through a slotted vent. Below her, men in black suits were running in circles. Clinton's voice boomed from their radios.

Cassidy kept crawling. She found a maintenance hatch that looked loose. She pushed her thin shoulder against the metal grate. It popped open with a dull thud.

She slipped through the hole and fell into a dark supply closet.

Her ankle twisted hard when she hit the floor. A sharp pain shot up her leg. Tears filled her eyes. She gasped, quickly covering her mouth with both hands. She dragged herself behind a row of mop buckets.

Footsteps pounded outside the door. The handle turned. Two guards shined flashlights into the closet. The bright beam swept over the buckets, missing her by inches.

"Clear," one of them grunted. They slammed the door shut.

Cassidy let out a shaky breath. She waited until the footsteps faded. She pushed herself up, putting her weight on her good leg. She limped out of the closet.

She avoided the main hallways. She knew how to hide from cameras. She had learned it living in the Sinclair mansion.

At the end of a long corridor, she saw a glass door leading to an outdoor courtyard. The afternoon sun poured through the glass. It looked warm.

Cassidy pushed the heavy door open. The cold autumn wind hit her face. It smelled like dead leaves. Her head was spinning from the fever.

The courtyard was completely empty. The lockdown had cleared everyone out. Only a stone fountain bubbled in the center.

Cassidy limped toward the fountain to hide behind the statue. Her vision started to blur. Her body shook violently.

Then, she heard it. The steady, calm click of high heels on the stone path.

Cassidy peeked around the statue. A woman in a beige trench coat was walking toward her, looking down at a cell phone.

Panic seized Cassidy. She thought it was someone coming to lock her back in the white room. She tried to step backward, but her foot slipped on a patch of wet moss.

She fell forward.

She didn't hit the hard stone. She crashed into something soft.

Catherine dropped her phone the second she saw the child falling. She dropped to her knees and caught the girl against her chest.

The impact knocked them both onto the damp grass. Mud smeared across Catherine's coat. Her phone tumbled harmlessly onto a soft patch of damp moss nearby.

Cassidy screamed. She pushed her small hands against Catherine's chest, fighting like a trapped animal.

Catherine looked down. She saw the pale face, the terrified eyes, the bleeding knees.

Her heart stopped. The breath left her lungs. It was the face from the photograph.

Catherine grabbed Cassidy's arms and pulled her tight against her chest. She wrapped her arms around the small body. Tears exploded from Catherine's eyes, soaking into the shoulder of the hospital gown.

Cassidy froze. The woman was crying.

Then, Cassidy smelled it. A faint, sweet scent of chamomile.

The smell bypassed her panicked brain and hit something deep inside her memory. Her tight muscles suddenly went completely loose.

Cassidy stopped fighting. She slowly lifted her hands and grabbed the lapels of the beige coat. She buried her face in the woman's neck.

Catherine felt the small hands holding onto her. She closed her eyes and buried her face in Cassidy's hair. She let out a broken, quiet sob. She rubbed her hand up and down the girl's back.

Cassidy's hot tears burned Catherine's skin. "I'm so tired," Cassidy whispered into her neck.

The glass doors of the courtyard exploded open.

Clinton burst through the doors, followed by three guards. He saw the two figures on the grass. His hand ripped the pistol from the holster of the guard beside him.

Catherine heard the noise. She snapped her head up.

She shoved Cassidy behind her back, shielding the child with her own body. Catherine glared at Clinton. Her eyes were wild, filled with pure, murderous rage.