The ultrasound technician, a nervous young woman in seafoam-green scrubs, steadfastly avoided eye contact with either of us. She busied herself calibrating the machine, her shoulders tight.

“Excuse me,” I said, my tone polite but commanding. “Is Dr. Thorne planning to join us for this scan?”

The technician nodded far too eagerly, her eyes darting to the floor. “Yes, Mrs. Brooks. Dr. Thorne specifically requested to review the final third-trimester scan personally.

He should be here any moment.”

Of course he did.

Men built like Julian didn’t just want to control their victims; they craved an audience while doing it. He wanted to stand in this room, playing the role of the devoted, brilliant father-to-be, forcing Chloe to swallow her terror while I watched, oblivious, clapping like a trained seal.