Grace had no scissors. No sterilized instruments. No blankets. No heating.
All she could do was hold them against her body and pray that her own fading warmth would be enough.
He looked at his watch with blurry vision.
7:15 a. m.
She had been trapped inside for ten hours.
Ten hours in a death box.
Ten hours of labor, cold, pain, fear and resistance.
She felt herself fading away. The chills had almost stopped. That was worse than the tremors. It meant her body was running out of strength.
She looked at her babies: two fragile faces against her chest
.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Mom tried. Mom fought with all her might.”
Her eyes slowly closed.
And then, somewhere outside that freezing room, someone noticed that something was wrong.
Connor Hayes had been working late.
His technology company occupied a building three doors down from Bennett Pharmaceuticals.
Around midnight, he saw a silver sedan in the parking lot with its hazard lights flashing dimly.
It was strange.
