We slammed through the double doors of the Operating Room. The bright, metallic glare of the surgical lights blinded me.
“Prep her for general anesthesia! We don’t have time for an epidural!” Dr. Evans barked, a plastic mask lowering toward my face. “Count backward from ten, Anna. Hold on for your baby.”
“Ten… nine…” I whispered, the darkness creeping into the edges of my vision.
Just as the darkness was about to consume me, the heavy wooden doors of the operating room burst open. A man in blood-spluttered surgical scrubs stormed in, pushing a nurse aside. But it wasn’t the specialist from Johns Hopkins.
I stared at the man’s face through the haze of the anesthesia. My heart stopped.
It was David’s uncle—Arthur Vance, the senior partner of the most corrupt defense firm in the state. He wasn’t a doctor. He had a surgical mask tied hastily over his face, his eyes wild, holding a silver medical syringe hidden beneath a stolen hospital gown.
Our eyes locked as he lunged toward my IV line.
