Fifteen minutes earlier, a shaking voice had told me my husband, Ethan Collins, had fallen down the stairs at work and suffered a severe head injury. I didn’t question who the caller was. I just grabbed my keys and drove like something inside me was burning.
The moment I reached the operating wing, a tall nurse with cropped blonde hair rushed toward me. Her expression was tight, almost frightened.
“Mrs. Collins?” she whispered.
“Yes! Please—where is my husband? They said he was critical!”
She looked over her shoulder, then leaned in so close I felt her breath against my ear.
“Quick, ma’am. Hide and trust me. It’s a trap.”
I froze. “What? What trap?”
She didn’t explain. She grabbed my arm and pulled me behind a storage cabinet. I wanted to scream, but something in her trembling hands told me to stay quiet.
Two men in medical coats walked down the hall—badges clipped on, but their stiff movements made it obvious they weren’t hospital staff. The nurse motioned for me to stay hidden as they entered the operating room.