Tears teetered on Claire’s lids. “Thank you, John…Emily?”

Emily took a ragged breath and leaned into John with her head shaking from side to side.

“Emily, we’re all the family we’ve got. I want our child to know and love his aunt and uncle. I hope someday Tony and I can be the same for your children. Maybe someday you will want the same thing.”

Emily left John’s embrace and walked to her sister. “Baby steps. I’ll support you and your baby. I want to be Aunt Em,” she added with a sad grin.

The irony helped to coat John’s cheeks in fresh tears. Emily was being Aunt Em, and he was Uncle John. Nichol was absolutely beautiful. After a few days of fussing at the formula, she was eating and sleeping like a champ. The first time Claire had awakened, John called Emily and told her to bring Nichol to the hospital.

Claire acted confused, but John felt confident that her daughter would snap her back to reality. She didn’t. The first time they tried, Claire held Nichol and cried. The next time that Emily brought her in the room, Claire just turned away and stared out the window. It was the saddest thing he’d ever seen.

The doctors explained it as a psychotic break—like a reprieve for the mind. Being a healthy, young woman, the prognosis was good. Yet no promises for the length of the episode could be made. The doctors said to take it one day at a time.

What made that increasingly difficult were the criminal charges facing Claire.

The police had tried to question her. She wouldn’t answer anyone’s questions about anything. Even Jane Allyson had been in and out trying to work on Claire’s defense. Increasingly, it seemed that self-defense and temporary insanity would be the best route.

Once again, focusing on his sister-in-law, John prayed that her condition was temporary. As hard as this was for Emily and him, he couldn’t imagine what Claire was enduring. Trying to pass time, John paced the hospital room. He’d done it for more hours than he could count. He knew the number of tiles in the floor as well as the number of tiles in the ceiling. At some point he had a random thought about why that number wasn’t the same. The answer was obvious: the size of the tiles. The ones on the floor were square, while the ones on the ceiling were rectangle. His interior monologues were a simple means of diversion: one he’d used successfully while incarcerated. Life seemed to have a repeat button.

Whenever his thoughts returned to incarceration, John’s blood pressure rose and his hands clenched unconsciously into fists. The next logical step in his stream of consciousness was Anthony Rawlings. Maybe Claire did love him, and maybe he was the father of that beautiful baby girl back at the hotel; nevertheless, he still deserved to be the one rotting in a prison cell—not John and not Claire. The idea that his sister-in-law could be convicted for a crime and once again Rawlings would go free was absurd.

That was why he and Jane went to Catherine London’s hospital room. They were in search of the truth—of answers. They asked her what exactly had happened at the estate. After that conversation, accusing Rawlings with false imprisonment seemed a foregone conclusion. There was no way they could let Claire face felony charges and Rawlings some misdemeanor charge. Knowing his depth of influence, especially in Iowa, he’d probably get off with a light sentence or pay a fine, get a slap on the wrist, and walk away scot-free.

John remembered the pain in Catherine’s eyes, her expression one of devastation as she spoke of the fateful events. The only reason John and Jane were granted access to Catherine’s guarded room was because they were Claire’s attorneys. Even still, Catherine’s attorney was also present.

“Catherine, how are you feeling?” John asked with true concern in his voice.

“Mr. Vandersol, I-I…”

John stepped closer. “Catherine, we’ve been through this before. I’m nothing like that man. Please call me John.” Motioning to his side, he said, “This is Jane Allyson. She’s Claire’s defense attorney. We’re hoping you could tell us something, anything, that would help with Claire’s defense and help nail Rawlings to the proverbial wall.”

The gray behind her pained eyes showed a spark of interest. “That’s why you’re here?”

Jane tenderly replied, “Ms. London, I understand this is difficult for you. You’ve worked for him for so long. It’s understandable how devastating it would be to have someone you’ve trusted most of your life turn on you.”

A single tear descended Catherine’s cheek. “There’s so much. Did you know Sophia Burke died?” More tears cascaded as she closed her eyes and shook her head. “And you, Mr.—I mean—John, the police said that you were trapped in the suite during the fire? I don’t know how that could have happened. How did Mr. Rawlings even know where you were? I hadn’t seen him in months. I thought he and Claire were dead…” Her voice trailed away.

Jane touched Catherine’s hand. “Can you please tell us why you called the police?”

Catherine adjusted the buttons on the hospital bed. As she sat straighter, her expression turned into a grimace.

“How are you doing?” John asked.

“I’ll be all right. The bullet didn’t do any lasting damage. Thankfully, they were able to remove it, and it missed my vital organs.” She winced as she settled into a more comfortable position. “I’m pretty sore. I don’t think I’ll be running any marathons for a while.”