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.

Clinton watched the ER doctor push a needle into Cassidy's arm. The fever-reducer began to drip through the IV line. Cassidy's breathing slowed, and she fell into a deep sleep.

Clinton rubbed the back of his stiff neck. He stepped out of the hospital room and pulled the door shut behind him.

He turned around.

Catherine Clarke was standing at the end of the hallway, half-hidden in the shadows. She had changed into a clean white lab coat. Her hands were shoved deep into her pockets.

She looked at him, then jerked her chin toward a heavy metal door on the left. It was a backup medical supply closet. There were no cameras inside.

Clinton frowned. His hand instinctively rested on the grip of his pistol. He walked down the hall and followed her into the small room.

Catherine stepped inside and grabbed the door handle. She pulled it shut. The heavy metal lock clicked loudly in the quiet space.

The closet was lit by a single, dim yellow emergency bulb. The air smelled strongly of rubbing alcohol and bleach. It made the small room feel suffocating.

Clinton leaned against a metal shelving unit. He crossed his arms over his chest. "What law are you going to quote at me now, Doc?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Catherine turned her back to him. She reached up and pulled the fake, clear-rimmed glasses off her face. She tossed them onto a metal tray. They landed with a sharp clatter.

She took a deep breath.

When she turned back around, the French accent was gone.

"You're getting sloppy, Viper," she said. She deliberately slowed her cadence, peeling back the thick layers of her French disguise word by word. Beneath it, her voice revealed its true nature-pure Boston money. Though slightly rusty from five years of disuse, the underlying tone remained as smooth, sharp, and perfectly enunciated as a polished blade.

Clinton's entire body went rigid.

Viper. It was his Marine Corps call sign. Only three people in the Sinclair family knew that name.

He pushed himself off the shelves. His eyes wide, he stared at the woman standing under the yellow light. The impossible thought from the courtyard crashed into his brain.

Catherine stepped forward, fully into the light. She didn't try to hide the pain in her eyes anymore.

"Long time no see, Clinton," she said softly. "You still frown too much."

The blood drained from Clinton's face. He stumbled backward. His shoulder hit the metal shelf hard. Three plastic bottles of saline solution fell off the edge and smashed onto the floor.

"Helen," Clinton choked out. His voice sounded like he had swallowed glass. He looked at her like she was a ghost crawling out of a grave.

Helen closed her eyes. A single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. "Yes."

Clinton lunged forward. He grabbed the lapels of her white coat and slammed her against the concrete wall.

"You died!" he roared, his spit hitting her face. "The yacht blew up! Why the hell did you wait five years to show up?"

Helen did not fight back. She let him hold her against the wall.

"If I didn't die that day," Helen said, her voice dead and flat, "do you think Gerald would have ever stopped hunting me? Would I be breathing right now?"

Clinton's grip loosened slightly. He remembered the vicious custody battle. He remembered Gerald's cold orders to destroy her reputation. He couldn't speak.

Helen shoved his hands away. She straightened her coat. The vulnerable mother was gone. The fierce woman returned.

"I spent five years getting my medical degree," Helen said, stepping into his space. "I clawed my way to the top of this hospital for one reason. I am taking my daughter back."

Clinton let out a harsh, barking laugh. "You're insane. As long as Gerald is breathing, you will never touch that kid."

Helen's eyes turned to ice. "She is dying inside that cage, Clinton! Her mind is breaking. You saw her on that window ledge!"

She grabbed his arm. Her fingers dug into his muscle. "Don't you feel any guilt? You watch them destroy her every single day."

Clinton's chest heaved. He couldn't look her in the eye. He knew she was right. The kid was miserable.

Helen's voice cracked. She dropped her aggressive stance. "Please, Clinton. I just want to see her. Alone. Just once."

Clinton closed his eyes. The loyalty to his boss fought a violent war with the pity he felt for the broken woman in front of him.

He spun around and punched the metal shelving unit. The steel dented inward with a massive bang.

The room fell dead silent.

Clinton kept his back to her. "If Gerald finds out you are alive," he whispered, his voice shaking, "he will burn this entire city to the ground."