At my baby’s three-month checkup, the doctor asked me if I could speak with him privately for a moment. He lowered his voice so the conversation would not carry into the hallway, and the seriousness in his expression immediately made my heart beat faster.

The afternoon of the gala arrived with grey storm clouds rolling over the mountains surrounding Phoenix. The wind whipped through the palm trees in our front yard, rattling the glass windows of the living room.

Brandon was in his dressing room upstairs, adjusting his tuxedo black tie in the mirror.

“Lauren!” he called down the stairs, his voice sharp with impatience. “Where are my cufflinks? The onyx ones from my father?”

I stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a dark trench coat over my clothes, holding a heavy duffel bag in each hand. Florence was already sitting in my SUV parked in the garage, holding Hannah securely in her car seat.

“I left them on the vanity, Brandon!” I called back, my voice remarkably steady.

“I don't see them!” I heard his heavy footsteps marching across the master bedroom toward the closet.

I didn't waste another second. I sprinted into the garage, tossed the duffel bags into the trunk, slammed the garage door down electronically, and climbed into the driver’s seat of my SUV.

Florence looked at me, her face pale as snow. “Is he coming down?”

“Not yet,” I said, starting the engine. My phone was mounted on the dashboard. I opened my messaging app and sent a single text to Marcus Cole:

Phase One complete. We are out of the house. Proceeding to the safehouse.

Marcus replied immediately: Understood. Detectives are positioned at the Biltmore Hotel. We are waiting for him.

I hit the accelerator, and the SUV backed out of the driveway into the pouring rain. As the automatic garage door closed, I saw Brandon’s silhouette standing at the master bedroom window upstairs, looking down at the driveway.

He realized the SUV was gone.

Two seconds later, my phone began ringing frantically on the dashboard screen.

BRANDON CALLING.

I didn't answer. I pressed the ignore button.

Three seconds later, another call. Then a text message flashed across the screen:

WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING? WHY IS FLORENCE’S CAR GONE? ANSWER YOUR PHONE LAUREN!

I ignored it again, driving through the blinding rain toward the highway.

Then, my phone chimed with an emergency notification from my home security app. Motion detected in the nursery.

I glanced down at the screen at a red traffic light.

Brandon was standing in the center of the empty nursery. He had discovered the tiny, hidden camera lens hidden inside the smoke detector. On the camera feed, he was staring directly into the lens, his face twisted into an expression of murderous, unbridled rage.

He reached up, ripped the smoke detector off the ceiling, and smashed it against the wooden floorboards, cutting the feed to black.

“He knows,” Florence gasped from the backseat, clutching Hannah’s car seat. “Lauren, he knows about the cameras!”

“It doesn't matter,” I snapped, stepping on the gas as the light turned green. “He doesn't know where the safehouse is. By the time he reaches the Biltmore Hotel to look for us, the police will be waiting for him.”