“Mr. Sterlington?”
“Keys,” I said.
He held them out immediately.
I took them, got into the car, and drove out of the garage so fast the tires shrieked against the polished concrete.
My phone stayed mounted on the dashboard, the nursery feed still live.
I watched while I drove.
Every red light felt like an insult. Every car in front of me became an enemy. My hands shook against the steering wheel with a rage so huge it became strangely calm.
In mergers, panic lost wars.
Precision won them.
So I made calls.
First, emergency services.
“My infant son may have been exposed to medication,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “My wife is being assaulted inside my home. I am en route now. Send police and paramedics.”
