Chapter 62 - The Safehouse in Evian
The address wasn't a hospital. It was a retired veterinary surgery located behind an abandoned vineyard on the outskirts of Evian.
I kicked open the side door of the dark clinic, sweeping the shadows with my weapon before whistling Khloe inside. The air was frigid, smelling of antiseptic and dried animal antibiotics.
"On the table," I ordered, ripping clean surgical towels from a metal rack and laying them over the stainless-steel exam table.
Khloe stripped Grace down to her diaper. The baby’s skin was covered in a terrifying, mottled rash—bright red splotches blooming across her tiny belly and limbs. Her eyes were glazed, half-closed, barely responding to Khloe's touch.
"Find pediatric saline," Khloe ordered, her maternal terror transforming into cold, focused adrenaline. "And a butterfly needle. Gauge twenty-four. Now, Marcus!"
I raided the glass cabinets, smashing locks with the butt of my pistol. I found sterile saline bags, pediatric IV lines, and broad-spectrum corticosteroids.
Khloe’s hands were shaking, but the moment she touched the needle, she forced herself into absolute stillness. She had worked as a surgical nurse in Ohio before Anthony Vance had destroyed her life; the muscle memory was burned into her bones.
With agonizing precision, she slid the microscopic needle into a tiny blue vein on the back of Grace's foot, securing it with medical tape. She connected the saline drip, holding the plastic bag high above her head.
For ten excruciating minutes, neither of us breathed.
The only sound in the dark veterinary clinic was the wind howling against the wooden shutters and the steady, rhythmic *drip... drip... drip* of the clear fluid entering our daughter's bloodstream.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Grace’s rapid, shallow panting began to ease.
The mottled red flush on her neck receded, fading back to a pale, healthy cream. Her tiny chest began to rise and fall with deep, rhythmic breaths. Her eyelids fluttered, and she let out a soft, exhausted sigh, falling into a natural, healing sleep.
Khloe collapsed onto a wooden stool beside the metal table, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, heaving sobs.
I stood by the doorway, watching the snow accumulate on the windowsill, my gun hanging heavy at my side.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, the words feeling pitifully inadequate against the monstrous scale of our reality. "I should have told you five years ago. I should have told you who I was before I ever asked you out for that coffee in Cincinnati."
Khloe didn't lift her head from her hands for a long time.
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When she finally looked up, her face was completely hollowed out.
"Did you love me because you felt guilty?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "Did you marry me to atone for working for a monster?"
