THE PRICE OF LEAVING HER BEHIND

Mark rushed to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the bustling city intersection three stories below. Traffic surged along the avenue, a continuous yellow-and-black stream of taxicabs and commuter buses. Pedestrians moved along the sidewalks with umbrellas tucked under their arms against a sudden coastal drizzle.

His eyes scanned the curb directly beneath the firm’s entrance.

Parked in the loading zone was a deep-blue SUV, its hazard lights flashing rhythmically against the wet pavement. Through the rain-streaked rear passenger window, a woman sat in the back seat. Even from thirty feet up, Mark recognized the profile immediately. It was Clara.

She looked thinner, her shoulders wrapped in a thick wool cardigan he had bought her during their honeymoon in Vermont. Her face was pale, almost translucent under the gray sky, but her posture was unyielding. In her arms, cradled securely against her chest inside a cream-colored blanket, was a small bundle.

Julian.

Mark’s chest seized. He pressed his palms flat against the cold pane of glass, his breath fogging the window. ""Clara!"" he yelled instinctively, forgetting that three layers of sound-dampening architectural glass separated them from the street.

As if sensing his presence, Clara slowly turned her head. She looked up, directly at the third-floor conference window. There was no rage in her expression. No vindictive triumph. There was only a vast, terrifying emptiness—the look of a person who had looked upon someone they once loved and found absolutely nothing left worth recognizing.

Beside her, the driver’s door opened. A tall man in a dark trench coat stepped out, holding a large black umbrella over the rear door to shield the infant from the rain. It was Arthur. He didn't look up at the building. He carefully adjusted the baby’s blanket, closed the door, and got back behind the wheel.

Mark didn't think; he turned on his heel and sprinted from the room. He bypassed the elevators, taking the concrete stairs three at a time, his shoes skidding across the landings. He burst through the ground-floor fire exit into the street, oblivious to the rain that immediately soaked his hair and linen polo.

""Clara! Wait!"" he roared into the traffic noise, dodging a bicycle courier who cursed at him in passing.

He reached the loading zone, his lungs burning with exertion, his hands reaching for the door handle of the blue SUV. But his fingers closed on empty air. The SUV had already merged into the middle lane, its red taillights glowing brightly as it accelerated into the afternoon stream of vehicles.

Left standing in the gutter, water pooling around his ankles, Mark looked down. Lying on the curb where the rear door had been opened was a tiny hospital tag made of soft white plastic.