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.

Clinton saw Catherine shielding the girl. He immediately shoved his gun back into the holster. He raised both hands in the air, showing his empty palms, and took a slow step forward.

Catherine stood up from the wet grass. Her high heels sank into the mud, making her wobble for a second, but she locked her knees and stood perfectly straight. She kept Cassidy tucked tightly behind her legs.

"Come here, Cassidy," Clinton ordered. His voice was hard and loud. "You put the entire hospital on lockdown."

Cassidy flinched. She grabbed handfuls of Catherine's dirty trench coat and pressed her face against the back of Catherine's legs.

Catherine felt the child trembling. A hot wave of anger burned in her chest.

"Do not yell at her!" Catherine snapped in her thick French accent. "She is a sick child with a fever, and you are terrifying her!"

Clinton ignored her. He stepped closer and reached his thick arm out, grabbing Cassidy's thin wrist to pull her away.

Cassidy screamed. "No! I don't want to go back to the white room!"

The sound of her daughter's scream tore Catherine's heart in half.

Catherine did not think. She swung her arm and slapped Clinton's hand as hard as she could.

The smack echoed loudly across the empty courtyard. A bright red handprint instantly appeared on the back of Clinton's thick hand.

Clinton stared at his hand, stunned. He looked up at the Dean of Medicine. She looked like a wild animal protecting its young.

Catherine yanked Cassidy fully behind her back. "If you touch my patient again, I will have you arrested for assault," she hissed.

Clinton ground his teeth together. The muscle in his jaw ticked. He leaned in close to Catherine. "Do not interfere with Sinclair family business, Doctor."

"While she is on St. Jude property, her safety is my business," Catherine fired back, not breaking eye contact.

Suddenly, the weight against Catherine's legs vanished.

Cassidy's eyes rolled back. The fever and the panic finally broke her. She collapsed onto the grass like a broken doll.

"Cassidy!" Catherine screamed.

She dropped to her knees. She pressed two fingers against the girl's neck to check her pulse, then gently pulled back her eyelids. Her hands moved with frantic precision.

Clinton saw the sheer panic in the doctor's eyes. He backed off. He pressed his radio. "Bring a stretcher to the courtyard doors. Now."

He bent down and slid his arms under Cassidy to pick her up.

Catherine grabbed his forearms. She held on tight. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and full of absolute despair. It was the look of a mother having her child ripped away.

Clinton froze. The breath caught in his throat.

Five years ago, in a cold courtroom, Helen Sinclair had looked at him with those exact same eyes.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Clinton's neck. He shook his head, trying to clear the impossible thought. "I'm just taking her to the doctors," he said softly. "I won't hurt her."

Catherine's medical training kicked in. She knew the girl needed IV fluids immediately. Her fingers slowly uncurled from Clinton's arms.

She let go.

Clinton lifted the girl and ran toward the glass doors.

Catherine stayed on her knees in the mud. Her hands were empty. Her chest ached so badly she could barely breathe.

Up on the second floor, behind the glass wall of the connecting bridge, Martha stood frozen.

She had been watching the whole thing. When Catherine fell to her knees and looked up at Clinton, the sunlight hit her face perfectly.

Martha dropped the clean towels she was holding. She clamped both hands over her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

She stared at the woman on the grass. The way she held her shoulders, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear as she stood up.

It was her.

Martha backed away from the glass. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Helen was alive. The Madam had come back.

Down in the courtyard, Catherine wiped the mud from her hands. Her despair vanished, replaced by a cold, hard determination. She turned and walked quickly after Clinton.