The sound of metal scraping against metal.
Erica bit down on the leather strap they had given her. A scream trapped in her throat turned into a low, animalistic moan. Sweat soaked her hair, plastering it to her skull.
The pain was blinding. It was a physical violation, a scraping away of hope.
"Breathe, Erica. Breathe," the nurse whispered, holding her hand. Erica squeezed until she thought she might break the woman's fingers.
It ended. Finally, it ended.
Erica lay limp on the gurney, shivering uncontrollably. They moved her to a recovery room. It was small, shared with another patient behind a curtain. No VIP suite for the unloved wife.
The door flew open. Gisselle Dixon rushed in. She was a whirlwind of fury and Chanel No. 5.
"Oh my god, Erica."
Gisselle saw the bloodless face, the hollow eyes. She burst into tears.
"Who did this? Who?"
Erica lifted a hand. It was heavy. "Don't cry, G."
The doctor stepped in. He pulled Gisselle into the hallway. Erica could hear the murmur of voices, then Gisselle's sharp intake of breath. Then a shout.
"Toxins? You mean poison? That family poisoned her?"
"Shh, Miss Dixon, please. We are still analyzing the compounds."
Gisselle stormed back in. She grabbed Erica's phone from the bedside table. "I'm calling him. I'm calling the police. I'm calling everyone."
She dialed Dillard.
"Speaker," Erica whispered.
The phone rang. Once. Twice.
"Yeah?" Dillard's voice. In the background, jazz music played. Glasses clinked. Laughter. A woman's laughter.
"You son of a bitch," Gisselle screamed. "Erica is in the hospital. She lost the baby. She just had surgery without anesthesia because your mother drugged her!"
There was a pause on the line. Then Dillard's voice, cold and dismissive. "Gisselle? Stop the drama. Erica put you up to this? Tell her the divorce terms are non-negotiable. I'm busy."
Click.
He hung up.
Gisselle stared at the phone, her mouth open. "He... he hung up."
Erica closed her eyes. A tear leaked out, hot and solitary. "Good."
"Good?" Gisselle yelled. "He's a monster!"
"It's good," Erica said, opening her eyes. The sadness was gone. In its place was something cold and hard, like a diamond. "Because now I don't have to feel guilty about what I'm going to do."
She sat up. The room spun.
"Help me up, G."
"You can't leave."
"I'm not staying in a Bentley-funded hospital. Did you get the bag?"
"Yes," Gisselle sniffled, wiping her eyes. "I stopped by the penthouse on my way here like you asked. I packed your essentials. And... I saw the papers on the nightstand. I took them, Erica. I wasn't going to let you leave them behind for him to ignore."
"Good. Take me to Brooklyn. To the loft."
The secret loft. Gisselle knew it. The place where Dr. N lived.
Erica slid her legs off the bed. Fresh blood spotted the gown. She didn't care.
"Let's go," she said. "Erica Duffy died on that table."
