Only a hairline.
But Hannah saw it.
He had counted on confusion.
He had counted on the blood.
He had counted on the hospital treating him like the authority because his name was on her insurance card and his money had bought the private wing’s donor plaque near the lobby.
He had counted wrong.
Hannah tapped one contact.
No name.
Just two letters.
RJ.
The call rang once.
Caleb’s hand shot out. “Give me that.”
Denise stepped between them.
“Sir, back up.”
He stared at the nurse like she had slapped him.
“I’m her husband.”
“And I’m her nurse,” Denise said.
The phone clicked.
A man’s voice came through.
Low.
Awake.
Already moving.
“Hannah?”
She closed her eyes.
“Ryan.”
The hallway seemed to shrink around that name.
Caleb’s mouth tightened.
“Hannah,” Ryan said again, sharper now. “Where are you?”
“St. Ambrose,” she whispered. “Labor and Delivery. Caleb won’t sign. They need surgery.”
read more in next page
