“Home.” I swallow painfully. “I want to go home.”

“Mrs. Esguerra . . .” The doctor places her hand on my forearm, her slender fingers warm on my skin. When I look up at her, she says gently, “I know it’s little consolation for your loss, but I want you to know that the vast majority of miscarriages cannot be prevented. It’s possible that the incident with you and your friend was a factor in this unfortunate event, but it’s just as likely that there was some kind of chromosomal abnormality that would’ve caused this to happen regardless. Statistically speaking, some twenty percent of known pregnancies end in miscarriage, and up to seventy percent of first-trimester miscarriages occur because of those abnormalities—not something the mother did or didn’t do.”

I take in her words dully, my gaze slipping from her face to the name tag pinned to her chest. Dr. Cobakis. Something about that seems familiar, but I’m too tired to figure out what.

Listlessly, I look up again. “Thank you,” I murmur, hoping she leaves the topic alone. I understand what she’s trying to do. The doctor’s probably run into this before—a woman’s automatic tendency to blame herself when something goes wrong with her pregnancy. What she doesn’t realize is that in my case, I am to blame.

I insisted on going to that club. What happened to Rosa and the baby is my fault and no one else’s.

The doctor gives my forearm a gentle squeeze and steps back. “I’ll get your friend ready for discharge while you get dressed,” she says, and walks out of the room, leaving me alone with Julian for the first time since our arrival at the hospital.

As soon as the doctor is gone, he releases my hand and leans over me. “Nora . . .” In his gaze, I see the same agony that’s tearing me up inside. “Baby, are you still in pain?”

I shake my head. The physical discomfort is nothing to me now. “I want to go home,” I say hoarsely. “Please, Julian, just take me home.”

“I will.” He strokes the uninjured side of my face, his touch warm and gentle. “I promise you, I will.”

Chapter 28

Julian

I’ve never known an emptiness like this before, a burning void that pulses with raw pain. When I lost Maria and my parents, there had been rage and grief, but not this.

Not this awful emptiness mixed with the strongest bloodlust I’ve ever known.

Nora is still and silent as I carry her up the stairs to our bedroom. Her eyes are closed, her lashes forming dark crescents on her colorless cheeks. She’s been like that—all but catatonic from blood loss and exhaustion—since we left the hospital.

As I lay her on the bed, I catch sight of her bruised cheekbone and split lip, and have to turn away to regain control. The violence seething within me feels so toxic, so corrosive, that I can’t touch Nora right now—not without it marking her in some way.

After a few moments, I feel calm enough to face the bed. Nora hasn’t moved, still lying where I placed her, and I realize she’s fallen asleep. Inhaling slowly, I bend over her and begin to undress her. I could let her sleep until morning, but there are traces of dried blood on her clothes, and I don’t want her to wake up like that.

She’ll have enough to deal with in the morning.

When she’s naked, I take off my own clothes and scoop her up, cradling her small, limp body against my chest as I walk to the bathroom. Entering the shower stall, I turn on the water, still holding her tightly.

She wakes up when the warm spray hits her skin, her eyes flying open as she convulsively clutches at my biceps. “Julian?” She sounds alarmed.

“Shh,” I soothe. “It’s okay. We’re home.” She looks a bit calmer, so I place her on her feet and ask softly, “Can you stand on your own for a minute, baby?”

She nods, and I make quick work of washing her and then myself. By the time I’m done, she’s swaying on her feet, and I see that it’s taking all her strength to remain upright. Swiftly, I bundle her into a large towel and carry her back to bed.

She passes out before her head touches the pillow. I tuck a blanket around her and sit next to her for a few moments, watching her chest rise and fall with her breathing.

Then I get up and get dressed to go downstairs.

* * *

Entering the living room, I see that Lucas is already waiting for me.

“Where’s Rosa?” I ask, keeping my voice level. Later I will think about our child, about Nora lying there so hurt and vulnerable, but for now I push it all out of my mind. I can’t afford to give in to my grief and fury, not when there is so much to be done.

“She’s asleep,” Lucas responds, rising from the couch. “I gave her Ambien and made sure she took a shower.”

“Good. Thank you.” I cross the room to stand next to him. “Now tell me everything.”

“The clean-up crew took care of the body and captured the kid Nora knocked out in the hallway. They’re holding him in a warehouse I rented on the South Side.”

“Good.” My chest fills with savage anticipation. “What about the white car?”

“The men were able to follow it to one of the residential high-rises downtown. At that point, it disappeared into a parking garage, and they decided against pursuing it there. I’ve already run the license plate number.”

He pauses at that point, prompting me to say impatiently, “And?”

“And it seems like we might have a problem,” Lucas says grimly. “Does the name Patrick Sullivan mean anything to you?”