The sound shot through my room like a gunshot.
I jerked upright on instinct, one hand flying to my belly, the other gripping the thin blanket over my legs. My heart monitor started chirping faster beside me. The blinds were half open, letting in the flat gray light of a February afternoon in Chicago, and for one stunned second I thought maybe a nurse had pushed the door too hard with a supply cart.
Then I saw her.
Tall. Sleek. Dark wool coat still on. Long blond hair swinging over one shoulder like she had stepped out of an ad instead of into a maternity room. Her makeup was perfect except for the way rage had twisted her mouth. Her eyes locked onto me with the kind of personal hatred that makes the air in a room feel poisonous.
Vanessa Reed.
My husband’s mistress.
The coffee cup slipped from my fingers and splashed across the tray.
