Chapter 5

Morning came through the blinds in pale gold streaks, bringing with it the sounds of the hospital waking up — the rattle of breakfast carts, the soft tread of nurses' shoes, the distant murmur of visitors finding their way through the corridors. Clara lay in her bed, still in the paper gown that had replaced her champagne-gold dress, her bandaged palm resting on the swell of her belly, and watched the light grow stronger through half-closed eyes.

She had not slept. Not really. Julian had stayed until midnight, when the nurses had finally insisted he go home and get some rest of his own. Alistair had come by twice, once to bring her clean clothes and once to update her on the police proceedings, his face grayer and more tired than she had ever seen it. And then she had been alone with her thoughts, with the memory of a stiletto heel driving into her side and a crystal flute shattering on marble and a blinking red light that had saved her life.

The door opened, and Alistair stepped in. He was wearing a fresh white coat over a light blue shirt, his hospital ID lanyard swinging, and he carried a tablet in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other.

"Good morning." His voice was gentle, the way it had been when she was a child with a scraped knee. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired." Clara shifted against her pillows. "And more than a little surreal. Is it true that my husband called me incredible last night, or did I dream that?"

"It's true." Alistair set the coffee on her tray and pulled up a chair. "He also called me three times this morning to ask if you'd eaten breakfast yet. I told him you were waiting for word from the DA's office before you let yourself feel anything."

Clara's lips twitched. "I told him I was pregnant, not fragile."

"You're both." Alistair's eyes were warm. "That's what makes you unstoppable."