aine was gone.
Security pulled up the hospital cameras.
The footage showed Lorraine walking through a service corridor she remembered from the twenty-four years she had worked in Riverside’s billing department.
Two minutes later, she opened a locked door for a man wearing hospital scrubs.
Robert.
He pushed an empty wheelchair into Maya’s room during the fire alarm.
Less than three minutes later, the camera captured Robert and Lorraine entering the underground loading area.
Maya was unconscious in the wheelchair, covered by a hospital blanket.
A gray van waited beside the exit.
The time stamp showed they had left eight minutes earlier.
My phone vibrated.
A message had arrived from Maya’s number.
It contained a photograph of her unconscious in the back of the van.
Beneath it, Robert had written:
YOU SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT HER HOME WHEN I ASKED.
TO BE CONTINUED…

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