Chapter 18 #2
The husband glances over and gives me a slow nod. Solidarity. Like we’re just a couple of men waiting for our wives outside a nail salon in the mall.
I can’t acknowledge him.
I'm too busy praying for God to forgive us for calling this healthcare .
Brook e
I move straight to the cabinet, heart thrashing against my ribs as I hunt for what I need.
Drawer two slides open with a metallic whisper.
I flip fast, my fingers trembling slightly as adrenaline floods my system.
No time to second-guess. No time for careful examination.
Each tabbed folder has a name, a start date, some scratched notes in different handwriting.
The papers rustle too loudly in the quiet room.
My breathing sounds like a freight train.
I speed-read the names of staff as they fly past until I reach the M’s.
My heart stutters when I see it.
Moreno, Eliza.
The file is thin. Three pages, tops. But one line jumps out like it's highlighted in red, searing itself into my retinas:
"Security issue."
Security issue? What kind? The got-caught-stealing-files kind?
I snap a photo with shaking fingers, the camera's artificial shutter sound obscenely loud in the silence.
I lift the second page, squinting at the rushed, uneven handwriting—notes scribbled like someone was racing a clock—when a voice cuts through the silence.
"Who are you?"
The drawer is still open. The evidence of my violation hanging between us like an accusation .
My body locks in place, every muscle going rigid as my nervous system floods with adrenaline.
A woman stands in the doorway—mid-fifties, maybe older. Her posture is military-sharp, shoulders back, chin up, like she's spent years perfecting the art of command. Scrubs pristine and pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Blonde hair pulled back into a clinical braid, not a strand out of place.
The name tag on her chest reads Clara Bell.
Wife of Travis Bell. Lead RN.
"Close that drawer," she says, voice calm. Almost kind. The tone a mother might use with a misbehaving child.
My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear over the roar of blood in my ears.
But I don’t move.
Not yet.
Clara steps farther into the room, her movements deliberate and controlled. She lets the door swing shut behind her with a soft click that sounds like a cell door closing. The acoustics change immediately. We're sealed in now, cut off from the hallway, from help, from witnesses.
Her tone stays gentle, conversational. "You're not a patient. That much is clear."
I blank. Completely and utterly blank.
"I don't know what you think you're doing," she continues, taking another measured step forward, closing the distance by half, "but you're in violation of multiple privacy statutes.
HIPAA violations alone could put you away for years.
" She pauses, tilting her head slightly like she's studying a particularly interesting specimen.
"What happens next depends on your cooperation. "
“Uh… look, I can explain.”
“Oh, I bet you can,” she spits. “What group are you with?”
Group?
She takes a step forward, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume, something clinical and cold, like antiseptic mixed with flowers.
And just like that, my cover is gone.
I'm not Amanda Keller anymore.
I'm exposed.
I'm trapped.
And Clara Bell is between me and the only way out.
Caleb
Fifteen minutes.
She should’ve been out five minutes ago.
I check the hallway clock again. Double-check. Time hasn’t stopped; it’s just dragging its feet, mocking me.
I stand. Chair legs scrape the linoleum, loud in the hush. The receptionist glances up, wary .
“Relax, sweetheart,” I say, voice low. “Just using the restroom.”
She exhales, tension pouring out of her shoulders. Nods. Looks back down.
I don’t break stride.
I move quiet. Deliberate. Not fast. Fast draws attention. But every nerve in my body is already running point.
The hallway stretches dim ahead. Lights overhead hum like old ballast, one flickering at the end like a coded warning.
I scan each door I pass. Patient consult. Storage. Exam room. Nothing. No sound.
The unease tightens in my gut. I know what it feels like when something’s wrong. This is it. That hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck warning that doesn’t come with sirens but never lies.
She should’ve checked in. A signal. A text. Something.
Either she’s gone rogue or she’s in danger.
I slow near the last set of rooms. Sound bleeds into the corridor. A woman. Controlled. Coiled. Defending the indefensible.
“They were just clumps of cells. Tissue. Noise. You call them babies to make yourselves feel righteous.”
I stop. Instinct kicks in. Back to the wall. One boot planted just outside the door. Every sense sharp.
Inside, I hear Brooke .
“That’s not what I’ve seen.”
I press in closer, angle my body toward the doorframe.
“They have their own DNA. A separate heartbeat.”
She pauses. The passion evident in her voice. “A human life doesn’t become valuable because it’s convenient.”
I shake my head in disbelief. She’s picking a fight? In an abortion clinic?
Inside, the woman’s voice dips colder. Smooth, but now with an edge.
“I’m calling the police.”
That does it. I’m calling time on whatever this is.
I thump on the door. “Amanda? It’s time to go.”
I push the door open with my foot, hand close to my weapon, revealing a furious nurse and Brooke, looking like she’s about to wail on the woman.
“This isn’t over,” she says.
The nurse chokes a laugh, a snide expression on her face. “It never is with you people. Good thing we have the law on our side.”
I grab Brooke and yank her away before she starts a fight we can never win.
Brooke
Caleb doesn't speak as he frog-marches me past the receptionist, out the door, and into the car. His grip on my arm is firm but not painful, professional in that way that somehow makes it worse than if he were actually angry.
Reese eyes me from his vehicle, and I catch the subtle shake of his head before he just prepares to follow us out, leaving me feeling even more foolish.
Because that's what I am. A fool.
I never should have started arguing with Clara. But when she assumed I was with a pro-life organization, it seemed like the perfect cover. A way to get her talking, to lower her guard. Until I got a little carried away and forgot I was supposed to be gathering information, not winning debates.
I buckle in, my hands shaking slightly as I fumble with the seatbelt, and prepare for Caleb to chastise me. He doesn't. He's so annoyed, he doesn't say a word the entire, painful drive back to my house.
My house comes into view, and I notice the patrol car immediately.
The officer inside gives me a friendly wave as we pull into the driveway, and I lift my hand in response, but Caleb flat-out blanks the officer sitting inside, and I can feel the chill radiating from him in waves.
The engine dies, and we sit in the sudden quiet for a moment. I can hear the tick of the cooling engine, the distant hum of traffic, the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. Caleb's jaw is working so furiously, he's liable to wear all the enamel off his teeth.
We go through the usual routine, him opening my door with mechanical precision, then acting as a shield between me and the street, much to the amusement of the officers watching on.
I can almost feel their eyes on us, probably wondering what domestic drama they're witnessing. If only they knew the real story.
Caleb enters first, his movements sharp and efficient as he clears the house with practiced ease. I follow wearily, my feet dragging against the hardwood floors, before heading straight to where I hastily tucked the file this morning. Behind my refrigerator.
I pull it out, the file slightly bent from its hiding place, and swipe my hand over the cover to get rid of the dust.
With a look bordering on lethal, Caleb finally picks now to speak. "We had a plan. What happened?"
He's exasperated. That much is evident in the way he's standing, the set of his shoulders, the careful control in his voice. "I just…"
He doesn't give me a chance to finish my thought, if I even had one worth anything. "You have no consideration… no idea." He runs a hand over his face, and for the first time since I've known him, he lo oks truly tired. "You don't get to pull stunts like that. Not when you’re a part of a team."
The words hit like a slap, and I feel my reporter's instincts flare up in defense. "We're so close, Caleb. I can feel it. The story's right there, and if I don't?—"
"Is that all that matters to you? Getting the story?"
The question hangs in the air between us, and I realize I'm supposed to say no. I'm supposed to reassure him that my safety matters, that the people protecting me matter, that he matters.
When I don’t answer quickly enough, he shakes his head. “Right. Got it.” He snatches up the keys. “I’m going to go check on Mateo.”
Balancing against the wall, he reaches down to his ankle holster and pulls out a compact pistol, holding it out between us. “Nine mil. No safety. Short trigger. Won’t kick much.”
I blink at it, then shake my head. “No thanks. I have mace. The cops are outside. I’ll be fine.”
His expression hardens, just for a second. Not anger. Not even frustration. Just that quiet, tight disappointment that says he expected more .
He nods once, reholsters the weapon. “I’ll be back in an hour. Lock the door and don’t go anywhere.”
The door slams behind him, leaving me standing in my kitchen, clutching the file and trying to ignore the way his words echo in the sudden silence.
The story is the most important thing, isn't it? It has to be. Because if it's not, then what am I risking everything for?
Caleb
The steering wheel is slick against my palms, too warm from the sun, too tight in my grip. I force my eyes to stay on the road, even though everything in me wants to turn around. Turn around and tell her what it does to me, leaving her even for an hour.
I’ve led missions through kill zones and cartel territory with less anxiety than I feel leaving her behind with a patrol car and a locked door. She says she’s fine. But fine doesn’t stop bullets.
The scent of dust and heat clings to the vents, metallic and dry. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the tension riding up my spine, but it’s locked in tight. Just like everything else I can’t say.
My phone buzzes in the console tray like it knows I was about to call Silas and tell him I should be getting combat pay for this.
I glance down. Zack. Great. The voice of reason, Southern edition.
I jab the button, set it to speaker. Static clicks, then his voice comes through, slow, casual in that way that means business.
“You drivin’?”
“Yeah. On my way to see Mateo.” I scan the road ahead, his name tasting like unfinished business on my tongue. Like a prayer I’m not brave enough to pray. “Why?”
“Need you to pull over, brother.”
My spine locks. I flick the blinker, veer onto the shoulder. Gravel pops under the tires as the truck eases to a stop. Dust curls in the mirror.
The silence stretches long and heavy. I know that pause. I’ve heard it in foxholes and hospital corridors, in the moment before someone’s life splits in two.
“Talk to me, Zack.”
The line’s quiet for a beat. Then Zack exhales, and I can hear the weight behind it.
“TPD just found the director of Desert Rose.”
My hand hovers near my sidearm. Reflexive. Not drawn. But aware.
“Travis Bell? Where?”
“Just north of Oro Valley. Ran off the road into an arroyo bed. Looks like he’d been drinking—tested positive for alcohol and diazepam. Dead on impact.”
I stare through the windshield, but the landscape’s gone soft at the edges. This isn’t a coincidence. Can’t be.
While we were chasing shadows, Bell ended up dead in a ditch with just enough in his system to call it a closed case.
I tighten my grip on the wheel. “Tell Delilah to forget Sonora,” I say. “It was a false flag. ”
Zack relays my instructions to Delilah. “You want us to focus on the clinic?”
My mind jumps to the obvious. “Yeah. Look at Desert Rose,” I pause. “Employee rosters, shell companies, clinic licenses, anything.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I floor the accelerator, and the truck surges forward with a roar. Gravel spits across the shoulder as I tear back onto the highway, tires shrieking for grip.
The engine growls beneath me, devouring pavement like it knows I’m behind. Like it knows I never should’ve left her.
And I shouldn’t have.
Because the body count’s climbing for a reason.
We didn’t just pull a thread, we kicked the hornet’s nest wide open.
And if they’ve started tying off loose ends, Brooke could be next.