The nurses’ reception area was empty, except for a woman in blue scrubs in the back office talking to someone holding a broomstick—either a janitor or a witch. The corridor was devoid of people, which surprised him. When he’d brought Rina in, the hallway had been well populated. But that was during the daytime. It was almost nine, and most of the ancillary staff went home by five. The nighttime floor nurses must be occupied with women in labor.

Next to the nurses’ station was a lab room, its counters stocked with scopes, slides, and vials. A large industrial sink was mounted on the wall—stainless steel with a deep bowl like the ones at the morgue. The recollection made him shudder. Past the lab, down the hallway began a series of doors leading to the labor rooms. He peeked through one of the windows, feeling a little voyeuristic, and saw a woman, her bloated belly hooked up to machines, face contorted in pain. Through the closed door, he could hear panting, then an agonizing moan.

Stretches of empty pale pink corridor, the smell of antiseptics, hallways echoing feral growls—a real house of horrors. Maybe this was a nightmare. He was going to wake up any minute and find Rina safe, asleep at his side. A tap on his shoulder made him jump, reminded him this was all too real.

Georgina—her eyes on Marge.

“Excuse me, miss, but this is a restricted area.”

“I’m just accompanying Sergeant Decker. He’s wondering what’s going on with his wife.”

“I’ll be happy to help Sergeant Decker,” Georgina said. “Would you like directions out of here? It can be a maze.”

Marge nodded. Georgina directed her down the hallway and told her to follow the Exit signs. They’d lead her back to the lobby. Marge thanked her, threw Decker a sympathetic look, turned, and walked away.

Decker managed a sidelong glance at Georgina, feeling assertive and sheepish at the same time. “I was just wondering…”

Georgina took his arm. “Let’s go talk somewhere else. Hallways aren’t conducive to conversation.”

She took him inside the nurses’ station, giving him a seat at the front desk. The woman in the blue scrubs and the woman with the broomstick were still deep in conversation. There was a series of numbered monitors against the back wall, each one making audible beeps at different tempos. At least the pitch was the same. Hanging on the right wall was a blackboard with the labor rooms’ numbers, the name of the patient, doctor, and any specifics. Decker found Rina’s number. After her name was delivered, then the letters or along with the names of three doctors.

“She’s still in the operating room?” Decker asked.