My triplets refused to blow out their birthday candles until I set a fourth place at the table.

"Back door," Vance whispered, his eyes wide with animal panic. "Through the storage closet! There’s an external fire escape leading to the alley!"

Adam shoved the blue folder into his jacket and grabbed my hand. "Move!"

We bolted through the inner office into the dark storage room. Shelves of dusty medical journals and broken ultrasound machines lined the narrow path. Behind us, the frosted-glass door of the reception area shattered with a violent, deafening crash.

"Vance!" a cold, familiar voice echoed through the office. Julian Croft. "Where are the files?"

A muffled gunshot cracked through the warehouse, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the linoleum.

I let out a muffled shriek, but Adam clamped his hand over my mouth, kicking open the rusted metal fire door.

Cold fog and the smell of saltwater blasted our faces. We tumbled out onto the iron landing of the fire escape three stories above the deserted alleyway.

"Down! Now!" Adam hissed.

We clattered down the iron stairs, our footfalls ringing like gunshots against the metal. Above us, the fire door was kicked open.

A bright tactical flashlight beam cut through the mist, illuminating the iron railing right beside my head.

"Stop right there, Morgan!" Croft shouted from the third-floor landing.

A bullet pinged against the iron riser beneath my sneakers, throwing bright orange sparks into the dark.

We didn't stop. We hit the bottom landing, leaped the remaining six feet onto the damp asphalt of the alley, and sprinted toward the main street where our truck was hidden.

Behind us, boots hit the fire escape ladder in rapid pursuit.

We rounded the corner of the brick warehouse onto the street. Adam hit the remote unlock. The truck’s amber lights flashed. We dove into the cab, Adam slamming the lock button as another bullet shattered the rear passenger window, showering the back seat in thousands of tempered glass pebbles.

Adam threw the truck into drive, stomped the gas pedal to the floorboards, and the rear tires shrieked, biting into the wet pavement.

The truck lurched forward, clipping a dumpster that sent sparks flying into the night. Through the cracked side mirror, I saw Julian Croft standing under the amber streetlight, lowering a suppressed semi-automatic pistol, his face a mask of cold, murderous frustration.

"Rachel! Are you hit?" Adam yelled, his eyes darting frantically between the road and my body. "Are you bleeding?"

I checked my hands, my chest, my legs. "I'm okay! I’m okay! Adam, look at the folder!"

On my lap lay the blue file. Unharmed. Unstained.

Inside were the original footprints of our daughter, Vance’s signed confession, and the transaction receipt bearing Victor Sterling's signature.

"We don't go home," Adam said, his breathing ragged as he merged onto the highway, checking his mirrors for headlights. "Croft knows where we live. If he was willing to shoot Vance in cold blood, he’ll have men at our house right now."

"My mother," I gasped, cold terror gripping my throat. "The triplets!"

"I called Ben before we left Vance’s office," Adam said, his voice shaking with adrenaline. "Ben and his buddies from the fire department picked up Elaine and the kids an hour ago in two separate unmarked vans. They're safe at the union lodge outside county lines. Nobody knows where they are."

I exhaled a ragged breath, pressing the blue folder against my chest.

"Where do we go?" I asked.

Adam glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 1:15 AM.