“She withdrew the cash three hours after it hit her account,” Julian said. “Then she boarded the flight with Chloe and Mark. The booking was for a four-bedroom penthouse on Brickell Avenue.”
I looked down at the transaction logs, the black ink stark against the white page. The dates lined up with the day Maya had been discharged from the delivery room.
“How is she?” Julian asked, nodding toward the heavy double doors of the recovery ward.
“The fever is down,” I said. “But the doctor said she was hours away from slipping into a coma.”
Julian stood up and buttoned his heavy wool coat. “Get some rest, David. You need to be sharp for what comes next.”
He left the waiting room, his boots squeaking on the wet linoleum of the exit hallway.
I walked out of the hospital at five past five. The street was quiet, the sky a dark shade of bruised blue over the Brooklyn rooftops.
