The first thing I saw inside the nursery was my pregnant wife’s wedding ring lying in the center of an empty crib

The drive to St. Jude’s Asylum on the North Cliffs took twenty-two minutes of reckless, suicidal driving through winding coastal roads made treacherous by black ice and sheets of blinding rain.

My knuckles were white against the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, my son had finally exhausted himself, his tiny breathing growing alarmingly shallow again. I needed heat, I needed a pediatrician, and above all, I needed my wife.

St. Jude’s looked less like a medical facility and more like an abandoned Victorian prison perched precariously on the edge of a jagged granite cliff overlooking the churning black ocean. Its iron gates stood open, welcoming the storm.

I didn't bother parking in the visitor lot. I slammed the Bentley up onto the front lawn, left the engine running, and kicked open the heavy glass doors of the reception lobby, shielding the baby beneath my coat.

A terrified night nurse looked up from her desk, her eyes widening as she saw a drenched, wild-eyed man covered in mud and holding a newborn infant burst into her pristine, sterile domain.

“Sir! You can’t be back here—visiting hours ended at—”

“Where is Grace Caldwell?” I demanded, slamming my palm down on the reception counter so hard the desktop computer rattled.

“I—I don't know any—”

I pulled out my wallet, ripped out every single hundred-dollar bill I had—several thousand in total—and threw them across the desk like confetti.

“Her name is Grace Caldwell. My mother had her admitted here under false pretenses eleven days ago. If you don't tell me which room she’s in right now, I will tear this building down around your ears.”

The nurse stared at the cash, swallowed hard, and then nervously typed a code into her terminal.

“Ward... Ward 4-B. Secure psychiatric wing. Elevator at the end of the hall, but you need a biometric override card to—fuck it, just take mine.” She slid a plastic card across the desk with trembling fingers. “Third door on the left. Cell 304.”

Cell 304.

The words echoed in my ears like a death sentence. My wife, an innocent, gentle schoolteacher, was locked in a psychiatric cell because my mother wanted to merge two multi-billion-dollar corporations.

I didn't wait for the elevator. I found the concrete stairwell and took the steps three at a time, my lungs burning, my arms aching as I protected my son from the violent jostling.

When I reached the fourth floor, the heavy steel-reinforced door slid open with a heavy pneumatic hiss. The hallway smelled of bleach, sedatives, and ancient despair. Pale fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, sickly shadows against the cream-colored walls.