Prologue

Ding.

A subtle chime rippled through the stillness of the tastefully decorated office. There was a slight pause, and it sounded again, then a third time, its bell-like tone soothing in its regularity. A long-fingered hand reached out, caressed the corner of a photo of a dark-haired woman that faced him, then a pressed a button on the desk phone.

"Yes, Helen?"

"You wanted to know when they arrived, Mr. Peters." Helen's calm voice came through the speaker with its slight German accent, the words echoing slightly. "The car just pulled up to the door."

Carl Peters smiled to himself. "Thank you, Helen." He pressed another button, cutting the connection, then stood and walked across the room so he could see out the large picture window at the front of his office, straightening his tie as he did so.

Parked by the front door was a large, late-model luxury sedan. The driver exited the car and walked briskly to the back passenger door, standing at attention once it had been opened. It took a few moments for the passenger to exit, the figure unfurling itself from the car, legs straightening and a cell phone being tucked into an inner jacket pocket. The man appeared to be in his late forties, tall, with dark hair that glinted slightly with silver, and a goatee. His charcoal-colored suit had obviously been carefully tailored to fit his powerful frame perfectly.

Watching the man walk toward the building, Peters' hands moved to smooth down his own jacket, then back up to adjust his tie once more. As he was turning to walk back to his desk, a flash of red light caught his eye – an ambulance pulling up behind the sedan. He stopped and watched as the doors opened and a paramedic stepped out, pulling the edge of a wheeled stretcher behind him. The sedan driver's head turned, following the stretcher as it was directed toward the building. His employer kept walking, his eyes straight ahead, an unreadable expression on his face as he approached the door.

Peters strode briskly to his desk and pressed the intercom button as he slid into his chair. "Let Mr. Whitson in immediately when he gets here, Helen," the man instructed. "I don't want to keep him waiting."

"Yes, sir," she murmured before breaking the connection.

He picked up the file folder he had placed on his desk next to his computer and quickly scanned the contents.

Celia Pierce Whitson, thirty-two, wife of Jason Whitson, CEO of Pierce Industries. Past issues with bulimia, mild form of bipolar disorder, suffers from depression.

He nodded his head as the details settled in his memory.

When the door opened, Peters closed the file, stood, and gestured to a chair in front of his desk. "Mr. Whitson, please have a seat."

"I'll stand. I don't expect this will take long." The younger man's hazel eyes were cool as they scanned and appraised the office. His expression showed no interest, and there was a note of disdain in his voice. "I'm a busy man, Mr. Peters, and I have other appointments to keep. Are the papers ready?"

"Of course, Mr. Whitson." Peters stood and tapped the folder's edge against the desktop, trying to regain a measure of control over the situation. "I have your wife's admission forms right here. They just need a signature on the last page." He held the folder out, and Whitson grabbed it, rifling through the pages. Peters cleared his throat. "Her care and well-being will be our highest priority..."

"It better be." Whitson pulled a fountain pen from a pocket inside his jacket, signed the paper, then closed the folder and flung it back on the desk. He replaced the pen in his pocket and withdrew a small, sealed envelope, flinging it on top of the folder. It slid off the edge on to the desk, stopping when it hit the computer keyboard.

"My wife's condition is very delicate," Whitson said, emphasizing each word. "I want no visitors. They only upset her. And I expect she will be kept... stable." He cleared his throat. "Is this clear?"

"Of course, sir." Peters could feel a fine layer of sweat forming on the back of his neck and hoped his discomfort wasn't noticeable.

Whitson nodded.

Peters watched as the younger man walked out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him, then sank into his seat. He reached out a shaky hand to the phone's intercom button. "Helen, please check that Mrs. Whitson is settled in her room."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?" The voice was both solicitous and cold.

"Have Dr. Nash see me once he's completed her intake evaluation."

"Of course, sir." The intercom clicked off.

Peters pulled a silk square from his pocket and wiped his brow before turning his eyes to the photo of his wife that sat on his desk. "Two more years, dear," he murmured. "Two more years, and then I can retire, and get away from all this." He let out a breath. "It can't come soon enough."