“Not until I get that phone,” Daniel growled. “If there’s a recording, the insurance won’t pay out. The whole point of this was the payout, Vanessa! I’m not leaving empty-handed.”
He knelt down, his expensive leather shoes stepping right into a puddle of Noah’s spilled bathwater. He reached out to grab my hair, pulling my head back brutally. I gasped, a cry of pain escaping my lips.
“Where is it?” he demanded, shaking my head. “Where did it roll?”
I looked past him, my fading vision focusing on my son. Noah wasn’t moving. His eyes were closed, his face dangerously pale, a thin line of white foam forming at the corner of his lips.
No. No, please. Take me, just let him live.
A surge of primal, maternal adrenaline flared through my dying nervous system. It overrode the paralysis. It overrode the pain.
With a guttural scream, I drove my fingernails into Daniel’s face, dragging them down his cheek. I felt his skin tear, warm blood instantly coating my fingers.
