Rowan narrowed his eyes, staring at the disappearing taillights, trying to catch the license plate before the sleek black vehicle vanished into the night. Too late—the car slipped into darkness, as silent and swift as a wolf fading into the wilds.
Frustration rolled off him in heavy, palpable waves. He couldn't make sense of it—it wasn't Audrey, not really. The woman in the car seemed foreign, untethered from the one he had known for eight years. She had become something he didn't recognize, and that realization gnawed at him like acid.
His jaw clenched. Without hesitation, he strode toward the hospital's security room. Defeat was a word he did not understand. If one method failed, another always existed. He would find a way.
Inside, the security guard practically jumped out of his chair. Being a Blackthorne carried weight, sometimes suffocating weight.
"Mr. Blackthorne," the guard stammered, "one of the cameras was down earlier, so we only captured part of the footage."
