Evans hit the ICU door at a run. The guard scrambled aside. He took the corner too fast and slammed into the frame of Emma's room with his shoulder hard enough to rattle the glass.
The room was wrong. The blinds gaped at a night full of broken stars where a window used to be. Shards glittered on the floor. The curtain was half off its track. The rolling table had a wheel snapped sideways, as if it had tried to run and given up.
“Emma?" His voice was a command that pretended to be a call. He crossed the room in four strides, checked the bathroom, checked under the bed because rage makes men stupid, checked the closet as if she could fold herself into a shelf.
He stopped in the center of the mess and listened. The building answered with distant alarms that weren't alarms, with the hum of
