I stopped behind a wide concrete pillar near the gift shop, my heart pressing hard against my ribs.
A man in a sharp charcoal suit was leaning over the reception desk, his fingers tapping against the marble counter. He checked his gold wristwatch with a quick, impatient jerk of his arm, then glared at the young nurse behind the desk.
The nurse kept her hand on her keyboard, her face pale. “Sir, I cannot release patient information without authorization from the attending physician.”
“His name is Julian Vance,” the man said, his voice sharp and transactional. “I am Caleb Vance. I have the legal right to see him.”
I shrunk back into the shadow of the pillar, holding the heavy green backpack tight against my side.
Caleb Vance was tall, with sharp features and a narrow jaw that looked remarkably like the young boy in the faded photograph, though his eyes were cold and hard. He did not look like a man who had come to say goodbye; he looked like a man who had come to take what was his.
