All of Becca’s training and experience clicked into place, and she knew exactly what she had to do. First things first, she needed to pull herself together. Becca grabbed her purse and hurried into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She barely recognized the ravaged woman in the mirror. The bloodshot eyes, the deep bags settled under them, the worry lines that seemed to have multiplied overnight. She grabbed her makeup bag and went to work, carefully applying her foundation with precision and care. She applied blush, eye shadow, and lipstick and braided her hair. In a matter of minutes, she had transformed herself from distraught mother to trustworthy and reliable therapist. A text suddenly appeared on her phone. Dr.Atterman can see you in an hour.

Damn it. Becca forgot all about Christian and her promise to see her therapist. Now she had a decision to make: tell him about Mo and her threats or go it alone. Becca knew once she told him, she would have no control over the outcome. Law enforcement had to follow rules and regulations. It could be hours before they were able to interrogate Nate. Even if he told them where to find Mo, it might be too late for Raya. She texted Christian back, hating herself for lying. Be there in ten.

She returned to Ash’s bedside and squeezed her hand. “Sleep well, sweet girl. I’ll be back soon.”

She slowly opened the door, heading toward the exit sign at the end of the hall. By the time Christian came to check on her, Becca would be long gone.

She hurried across the street, toward the parking lot, a light rain falling, the night sky starless and clear. Becca made her way back downtown toward Good Samaritan Hospital, Nate’s current place of residence, which was less than ten minutes from Skid Row.

She understood the risks. There was a good chance Becca’s plan would fall to shit, but she was going to do whatever she could to make sure no one else got hurt.

Becca approached the security desk, where a young woman with smoky eyes and bright pink lips was busy flirting with a security guard. Becca clocked her name tag and approached the desk. “Hi, Cheryl, I’m Dr. Ortiz with the LAPD. I’m looking for Nate Sutton’s room,” Becca said, channeling every ounce of confidence she possessed. The woman glanced down at her computer screen, her nails clacking loudly on the keys as she typed. Something caught her attention, probably a notation that Nate was on a mental health hold. The young girl sat up straighter, eyeing Becca curiously. “You’re LAPD?”

“Dr. Ortiz with the SMART unit. I’ve been ordered to evaluate Mr. Sutton,” Becca said. She took out her badge and handed it over to the woman, not blinking.