For a heartbeat, the professional mask of the chief of medicine cracked.

I saw the flash of recognition, followed instantly by a wave of raw, gut-wrenching horror as his eyes moved over my split lip, the darkening bruise on my temple, the purple thumb-prints beginning to bloom around my throat.

He froze. The air in the room seemed to turn to ice.

“Doctor,” Ethan said, stepping forward with his hand extended, the picture of a grieving spouse. “I’m Ethan Vale. My wife—she had a terrible fall. I brought her in as fast as I could.”

Liam didn’t look at Ethan’s hand. He didn’t even look at Ethan’s face. He looked back at me, and I saw the silent question in his eyes: Is it time?

I gave the nearly imperceptible nod we’d practiced in secret meetings at a park three miles from my house.

Liam turned to Ethan. It was a look that would have withered a lesser man. The warmth vanished from the room, replaced by a deadly, clinical cold.