Chapter Three
Doc
My phone buzzed against my hip, pulling me from the medical journal I’d been reading.
Nova’s name flashed on the screen, and something in my chest tightened.
I’d left her apartment less than two hours ago after our…
confrontation. Hell, I didn’t even know what to call it.
One minute we’d been arguing about her safety, and the next, I’d been touching her arm, feeling her warmth beneath my fingers, watching her eyes widen with something that wasn’t just anger.
I swiped open the message, telling myself the quick rush of adrenaline was just concern for my charge, nothing more.
Need you at the apartment now. Found something important.
I stared at the text, debating how to respond.
President had been clear -- keep an eye on Nova, make sure she doesn’t get herself killed chasing ghosts, but don’t get involved beyond that.
The club would handle the investigation.
But something about the way she’d pieced together her mother’s notes, the determination in her eyes, had gotten under my skin.
On my way, I typed back, already reaching for my cut.
The night air hit me as I stepped outside, cool against my face.
The clubhouse was quiet for a Thursday, most brothers either on runs or at the bar down the street.
I headed for my truck, mind circling back to Nova.
Five feet of stubborn grit wrapped in a fragile-looking package that was anything but fragile.
The woman had survived weeks of looking over her shoulder, of knowing her parents’ killers might come for her next.
She’d driven through our gates and walked into our clubhouse alone.
I’d seen hardened men with less courage.
It scared the hell out of me.
Because courage without caution got people killed. And the more I learned about Mary-Jane’s investigation, the more convinced I became that whoever had arranged that “accident” wouldn’t hesitate to arrange another.
I pulled up outside the apartment a few minutes later, scanning the darkened area from habit.
Nothing looked out of place -- no unfamiliar vehicles, no shadows where there shouldn’t be.
Still, I kept my hand near the weapon concealed beneath my cut as I approached her door.
The President had assigned me to watch over her, and I took that responsibility seriously. At least, that’s what I told myself.
The door flew open before I could knock, like she’d been waiting. Her brown hair was twisted into a messy bun, tendrils slipping free to frame her face. She still wore sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, but a feverish energy sharpened her movements and a new brightness burned in her eyes.
“You came,” she said, relief evident in her voice.
“You asked.” I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The lock engaged with a click that sounded final somehow.
The apartment looked like a research tornado had hit it.
While most things were in the bedroom, some of it had extended to the rest of the apartment.
Papers covered every surface -- the bed, the small desk, even the floor.
Photos of twisted metal, police reports, and newspaper clippings created a macabre collage across the bedspread.
In the center of it all sat her mother’s black notebook, its pages marked with colorful sticky notes.
“You’ve been busy.” I looked at everything, taking in the organized chaos.
“I couldn’t stop once I started seeing the connections.
” Nova moved back to the bed, kneeling among the papers.
Her hands trembled slightly as she arranged the photos side by side.
I noticed the way she paused to trace a small scar on her palm -- a nervous habit, I guessed, possibly developed during therapy.
I’d dealt with my share of therapists. I had no doubt she’d sought counseling.
With everything she’d been through, she had to have talked to at least one.
I might not have known her long, but it seemed like something she would do, and the clinical part of my brain recognized the self-soothing gesture, even as the man in me wanted to take those small hands in mine, steady them with my own.
I remained standing, maintaining the distance I knew was necessary. “What did you find?”
“Look at these.” She pointed to two photographs -- one from the police report of her parents’ accident, the other from what appeared to be a different crash altogether. “Both accidents were ruled as driver error, but I don’t think that’s right.”
I stepped closer, the doctor in me analyzing the twisted metal with a practiced eye. “This other accident --”
“Attorney Robert Harland.” Nova’s voice was tight. “His car went off Dead Man’s Curve three years ago. Mom had been investigating him for corruption charges.” She picked up a newspaper clipping. “The case was closed after his death. Ruled an accident.”
I felt a chill run through me as I looked between the photos. The similarities were unmistakable to anyone with training in forensics or medicine. The damage patterns weren’t consistent with a simple loss of control. They looked more like… “They were forced off the road.”
Nova’s gaze met mine. I saw both fear and vindication. “That’s what I think too.” Her breath came quicker now, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her shirt. “This wasn’t random, Doc. Someone targeted my parents just like they targeted Harland.”
I watched her fingers trace that scar again, a repetitive motion that betrayed her anxiety despite the steadiness in her voice.
I found myself hyperaware of her physical state -- the elevated breathing, the trembling hands, the tension in her shoulders.
She was holding herself together by sheer force of will.
“There’s more.” She spread out additional photos. “Three ‘accidents’ in five years, all people connected to investigations into Magnolia County officials. All ruled driver error. All with the same damage pattern to the driver’s side rear quarter panel.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her organized chaos. The evidence was compelling, especially when laid out so methodically. Whatever Mary-Jane Treemont had been investigating, it had cost multiple people their lives. And now, her daughter was pulling at the same threads.
My chest tightened with something that went beyond professional concern.
I didn’t want to see Nova Treemont’s name added to that list of “accidents.” I didn’t want to imagine her car at the bottom of a ravine, her small body broken beyond repair.
The visceral reaction to that mental image surprised me with its intensity.
“You need to take this to the President.” My voice came out rougher than I’d intended.
Nova’s gaze locked with mine. “I need more than that. I need to go to the crash site. There might be evidence the police missed -- or ignored.” Her gaze was unflinching, challenging me to deny her. “Will you take me there, Doc?”
I should have said no. Should have told her to wait, to let the club handle it. But looking at the slight tremble in her lower lip she was trying so hard to control, I knew I wasn’t going to refuse her. Not this time.
“When?” I asked instead.
“Now.” She was already reaching for her phone. “Tonight. Before anyone else can get to whatever’s there. Right now, I think they’re aware I don’t think the deaths were accidental. But they don’t know I’m actively digging into this.”
I nodded slowly, already calculating the risks, the precautions we’d need to take. “Pack up what you need. I’ll let the Prospect on guard duty know we’re heading out.”
As she gathered her materials, I watched her small hands moving with purpose among the evidence of her mother’s last investigation. Nova Treemont was walking a dangerous path, and somehow, against my better judgment, I’d agreed to walk it with her.
While she gathered her things, I leaned closer to the photographs spread across Nova’s bed, and I studied the crash scenes with fresh eyes.
What had initially looked like random damage now revealed a pattern -- a signature of sorts.
The indentation on the driver’s side quarter panel of Mary-Jane’s car wasn’t from hitting the guardrail.
It was an impact point, likely from another vehicle.
Whoever had done this knew exactly how much force to apply and where to send a car careening off the road while making it look like driver error.
“Let me see that toxicology report.” I held out my hand without looking up.
Nova passed me the paper, her fingers brushing against mine. I ignored the jolt of awareness that simple contact triggered, focusing instead on the medical data in front of me.
“Your father’s blood alcohol level was 0.02.” I scanned the numbers. “Barely registrable. One beer, maybe.”
“Dad rarely drank at all. Mom said he was allergic to something in most alcohol. Made him break out in hives.”
I nodded, flipping to the next page. “No other substances in his system. No medical conditions that would cause him to lose control.” I set the report down and picked up a close-up photo of the tire marks at the scene.
“These skid patterns… maybe it’s just me, but they seem consistent with a vehicle trying to correct after being struck from behind at an angle. No way the police didn’t notice.”
Nova leaned in, her shoulder pressing against my arm as she looked where I was pointing. The scent of her shampoo, something floral and clean, drifted up, momentarily distracting me.
“So they were definitely forced off the road?” Her voice held equal parts vindication and horror.
“I’d stake my medical license on it. Look here.” I pointed to another photo showing the undercarriage of her parents’ car. “See this damage to the rear axle? It’s not consistent with the impact of hitting the guardrail or going down the embankment. This happened before the crash.”