Chapter 265
“Let her go! You’re killing her!”
Jeraldine threw herself at Hilliard’s arm, pulling with all her strength.
Victoria English, Charla’s mother, came running from the waiting area, swinging her designer handbag at Hilliard’s head.
“Get off my daughter! Help! Murder!”
Hilliard didn’t flinch. He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed locked on Charla’s.
“Where. Is. She.”
Charla’s eyes were rolling back. She was losing consciousness.
“Sir!” Gavin and two bodyguards rushed in, pulling Jeraldine and Victoria away, though neither dared lay a hand on Hilliard himself.
“Hilliard, stop!” Vance came running from the direction of the ICU. “Cailin’s out of surgery — she’s asking for you!”
The name cut clean through the red haze.
Cailin.
Hilliard’s grip loosened. Charla dropped to the floor, gasping, both hands flying to her throat. She coughed violently, retching against the wall.
Hilliard looked at his hands. They were shaking.
“She’s asking for Elia,” Vance said, still breathless. “She’s in post-op recovery — delirious, but she keeps saying her name. Her heart rate is spiking. The doctors say if she gets too agitated, she’ll start bleeding again.”
Hilliard’s gaze drifted to the elevator doors. B2.
He couldn’t go to Cailin. Not without Elia. If he walked in there and told her he had lost their daughter again, it would kill her.
“Tell her she’s safe,” Hilliard said, his voice a raw rasp. “Tell her Elia is with me. Lie to her, Vance.”
“I can’t—”
“Do it!” Hilliard roared. “Buy me ten minutes.”
He turned and hit the elevator button. It was too slow. He kicked the stairwell door open and ran.
Behind him, Charla was sobbing.
“He’s insane,” she shrieked. “I’m calling the police!”
Jeraldine stood very still, studying Charla. She saw the bruises already blooming along her neck. But she had also seen the look in Hilliard’s eyes — and she had seen things like it before.
“Charla,” Jeraldine said quietly. “Did you send that child to the basement?”
Charla looked away. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Downstairs, Hilliard reached the heavy steel doors of the morgue.
Locked. Keycard access only.
He didn’t have a card.
He stepped back, drew the gun he had taken from his bodyguard, and fired two shots into the electronic lock. Sparks scattered across the floor.
He kicked the door. It swung open with a groan.
Darkness. Cold air. The sharp, chemical bite of formaldehyde.
“Elia!” Hilliard shouted.
Silence.
Cailin opened her eyes.
The light was blinding. Pain radiated from her abdomen in waves, sharp and relentless, spreading outward like a starburst with every shallow breath.
“Elia…” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Vance was there, holding her hand. He looked pale. Sweaty.
“She’s okay,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Hilliard has her. She’s safe.”
Cailin looked at him. She saw the tremor in his jaw. The way his eyes refused to meet hers.
“Liar,” she whispered.