“We all thought Hyde was out of the picture. And my crazy, stupid wife—why didn’t she tell me?” My unshed tears scald my throat.

“Christian, calm down,” he says, gently moving toward me. “Ana’s a remarkable young woman. She was incredibly brave.”

“Brave and headstrong and stubborn and stupid.” My voice breaks on the last word as I fight to contain my emotion.

But what would have happened to Mia, if not for Ana?

This is so confusing. I place my head in my hands, conflicted.

“Hey.” Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. I welcome his comforting touch. “Don’t be so hard on her, or yourself, son. I’d better get back to your mom. It’s after three in the morning, Christian. You really should try to sleep.”

“I thought Mom went home.”

Carrick blows out a breath in frustration. “She couldn’t leave Mia. She’s stubborn, like you. Congratulations again on the baby. That’s some good news, in all this mess.”

I feel the blood drain from my head—I’ll never be as good a father as Carrick.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You’ve got this.”

And because I’m weary and despondent, I’m annoyed that he’s diagnosed my anxiety so precisely.

Perceptive, Dad.

“You’ll make a great father, Christian. Stop worrying. You have several months to get used to the idea.” He pats my shoulder again. “I’ll be back later this morning.”

“Good night, Dad.” I watch him quietly close the door.

A great father, eh?

I put my head in my hands.

Right now, I just want my wife back. I don’t want to think about the baby.

I stand and stretch. It’s late. I’m stiff and sore and heartsick with worry.

Why won’t she wake up? Bending, I kiss her cheek. Her skin is soft and reassuringly warm against my lips.

“Wake up, baby,” I whisper. “I need you.”

“Good morning, Mr. Grey.”

What? Again I’m startled from my doze as the nurse opens the curtains, letting the golden fall light invade the room. It’s the older nurse—I can’t remember her name. “I’m going to check your wife’s IV fluids.”

“Sure,” I mumble. “Do I need to leave?”

“It’s up to you.”

“I’ll stretch my legs.” Feeling like shit, I get up, and with a last glance at my wife, I stagger out into the corridor. Maybe I can find some coffee.

Taylor arrives around 8:30 with my phone charger and some breakfast (courtesy of Mrs. Jones). I wonder if it’s a peace offering from her. One peek into the brown paper bag confirms that it is: two ham-and-cheese croissants. They smell divine. And I have a thermos of proper coffee. “Please thank Gail for me.”

“Will do. How is Mrs. Grey?” He looks toward Ana, his concern obvious in the tight line of his jaw.

“All signs are good. We’re just waiting for her to wake up. I can’t believe we spent last weekend at OHSU, and this weekend we’re at Northwest.”

Taylor nods sympathetically.

“You may as well stay and update me here. I don’t want to leave her side.” I offer him the seat beside me. While I eat my breakfast, he recounts all that happened after the ambulances left the crime scene.

“…and the police have recovered Mrs. Grey’s cell phone.”

“Oh.”

“She placed it in one of the duffel bags with the cash.”

“Really?” I glance at my sleeping wife. That’s genius. “We were following the money?”

“Indeed,” Taylor responds, and it’s obvious he’s impressed with Ana’s ingenuity. “The police have the cash.”

It’s the first time I’ve thought about the five million dollars.

“Will we get it back?”

“Eventually, sir.”

I roll my eyes. It’s the least of my problems. “I’ll get Welch onto the police and let him liaise with them for the return of the money.”

“Hyde is here, being patched up. He’s under police guard,” Taylor says.

“I wish she’d finished him off.”

Taylor holds his counsel, and I remember him wrestling me off Hyde while I was beating that fucker to a pulp. I can’t decide if Taylor’s actions were a good thing or not.

Hell. If he hadn’t, I’d be in a police cell now.

“Detective Clark would like a word with you at some point.” Taylor wisely changes the subject as I take a bite of the second croissant.

“Now is not the time.”

“Ryan has collected Mrs. Grey’s car. Apart from a parking ticket, it’s all good.” His smile is wry. “Sawyer’s mad he let her get away.”

“I’m sure.”

“There are photographers camped outside the hospital.”

Hell.

My phone buzzes. It’s Ray. Shit.

“Ray. Good morning.”

“I need to see Annie.”

Ray has heard about Ana’s heroics, courtesy of the media, and now insists on seeing her. As he’s the only man in the world who intimidates me, I cannot say no.

I dispatch Taylor, and thirty minutes later Ray’s sitting at the end of her bed in his wheelchair.

“Annie,” he whispers as I wheel him in closer to her bed. “What was she thinking?” he says, his voice hoarse. He’s shaved and is wearing loose shorts and a shirt, so in spite of the broken leg and bruising, he looks more like himself.