inst the panic clawing at her throat, forcing herself to breathe, to think. The

life for seven years. The lottery money was new; perhaps a kidnapping

he depths of her memory, co

eway. It came to a stop. The door opened, and rough hands hauled her

, and money. Her feet sank into a thick, plush carpet.

nto a chair. The hood w

oment to adjust. She was in a magnificent, two-story libra

chair across from her, swirling

tt Bo

longer the man from the hospital room; he was colder, harder, and the raw power emana

r was confirm

was like the scrape of steel on sto

the terror that was making her tremble. "What is the m

his lips. "Is it? I consid

ng near the fireplace. The woman, Ms. Grant, stepped forward

r hospital record from seven years ago. It detailed her pregnancy, t

old. "This is..

searching for any sign of deceit. "Look closer. I

ins. The doctor, the nurse... they told me one of them died!" Her voice ro

al was nothing more than a p

alked slowly towards her until he was standing over

pensive whiskey. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her skin, forcing her to meet h

e with her own defiant one, tears of rage and f

cate, though she'd been too grief-stricken to examine it closely, had been real. This repor

on his short fuse. His face conto

venomous hiss. "And because he wasn't perfect, because he

barrage of accusations that ma

on his lips. "You are the most vile, heartless

ly bewildered. "Your son? W

ury. He saw it as a masterful performan

of a terrible purpose. "Since you refuse to confess," he said, his voice dropping t

spoke to the guard standin