At dawn a detective arrived. His name was Marcus Hale, a calm and steady presence whose quiet confidence soothed some of my spiraling thoughts. He listened carefully, then asked how Corwin might have learned about the delivery. Shame crept into my voice when I explained that my aunt in Spain had posted a picture of baby clothes with a caption about her excitement. She had not realized Corwin still monitored anything connected to me.
Marcus took notes and assured me that additional patrols would be assigned. “We are filing the warrant today,” he said. “You will not be left unprotected.”
The next morning the hospital released us under police escort. Raina walked beside me, checking corners and shadowed hallways as though expecting Corwin to appear. The officers guided us to a patrol car, and for a brief moment I felt a wave of relief as the hospital shrank behind us.
That relief shattered the moment we walked into our home.
A piece of paper sat on the kitchen counter. No one had left anything there before we departed for the hospital. The handwriting was unmistakably Corwin’s.
An officer lifted it with gloved hands and unfolded it carefully. His expression hardened.