Thatcher froze, his fingers dropping away from my wrist as if he had been burned.
Beatrix gasped, her hand flying to her neck, her fingers clutching the pearls.
The silence in the foyer was absolute, save for Sabina’s rapid, shallow breathing.
“I am taking our daughter to the hospital,” I said, pulling the faded star blanket tighter around her.
Thatcher stepped back, his hand rising to adjust his cufflink, but his fingers were clumsy.
He looked at the floor, his face pale, the smooth confidence entirely gone from his eyes.
Beatrix watched him, waiting for him to speak, but he remained silent, stepping slowly to the side.
I walked past them, the heavy oak door swinging open into the autumn night.
The cold night air hit my face as I stepped out onto the driveway.
I scrambled into the driver’s seat of the Volvo, my hands cold against the leather steering wheel as the ignition caught. In the passenger seat, Sabina was curled under her faded star blanket, her breathing too fast, her small chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow jerks.
