Anne twisted out of his reach and went to her closet to find some clothes to pull on. Underwear, a pair of acid-washed jeans, and a big, slouchy black sweater that wanted to fall off one shoulder. Good enough. She pulled on an old pair of once-white Keds and headed for the door.

“Anne,” Vince said again, stepping in front of her, still naked, water droplets glistening in his chest hair.

She looked to the left of his head and past his shoulder, waiting impatiently for him to say what he had to say, then get out of her way.

“Sweetheart,” he said, softening his tone. “You’ve been through so much in the past year. You’re still struggling with it. I don’t want you getting involved in something that’s going to add to your stress level—and mine,” he admitted.

He had a good point. He was only trying to protect her, which was very sweet and chivalrous. Still, now her pride was involved, and her feminist tendencies were offended. She wasn’t going to let Tony Mendez or Cal Dixon or anyone else think that she had to have her husband’s permission to do anything. It was 1986, for God’s sake, not 1956.

“I’m going,” she declared.

Hands jammed at his waist, Vince heaved a big sigh of absolute frustration. Muscles worked at the back of jaw as if he were trying to choke something down.

“Let me get some clothes on,” he said at last. “I’m driving.”

Mercy General was a jewel of a small hospital. One of the benefits of being located in an affluent, educated community was the generosity of its residents.

There was no shortage of bequests and contributions rolling in to fund new wings, new equipment, renovations. Mercy General had up-to-date, state-of-the-art everything and attracted top-notch staff from doctors and nurses to administrators.

Haley Fordham lay in a bed in the ICU, a unit Vince and everyone else involved in the See-No-Evil case had come to know well during the time Karly Vickers had been there. The ambient lighting was soft, the walls painted a honey amber color. The feeling was one of being cocooned in glowing warmth. The rooms were fronted by glass so all patients were visible to the staff at the central desk.

But they heard Marissa Fordham’s daughter before they saw her. As Vince and Anne stepped off the elevator, they were greeted by the piercing shriek of a terrified small child.

Anne tensed instantly. Vince felt her back go rigid beneath his hand as they headed toward the source of the screaming.

Mendez came to meet them, looking grim.

“What’s going on?” Vince asked.

“She woke up screaming and hasn’t stopped. The doctor says it could be a sign of brain damage from being asphyxiated.”