Chapter 8
EIGHT
THE CLINIC
Ford knew something shifted the moment he stepped through the clinic doors. The air felt different. Everything was controlled.
Isolation carts stood near the entrance. Mask boxes were mounted at eye level. A discreet sign near reception in French, Creole and English read: Respiratory precautions in effect. Mask required beyond this point.
He paused just inside, reached for one of the surgical masks, and fit it over his face without being told.
Liana noticed. “Look at that,” she called from behind the desk. “He can follow instructions.”
“Don’t spread that rumor.” Ford adjusted the straps.
He signed himself in on the tablet at reception, noting the way the waiting area was subtly restructured. Chairs were spaced wider. There was a secondary triage station near the side hall. Windows were cracked for cross-ventilation.
Before he could look up again, something small and fast barreled into him. “Ford!”
He barely had time to brace before a tiny masked figure with wild curls launched into his legs and scrambled up like she was a climbing wall. “Véronique,” laughter bubbled in his throat as he lifted her carefully, “you’re supposed to be resting.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, stuffed turtle pressed between them. Her mask was slightly crooked. “You didn’t leave,” she said, eyes shining.
“Nope,” he said. “Still five minutes away, but only if riding in a car. And never by yourself.”
She scrunched her nose and nodded.
Footsteps approached briskly. “Véronique Talbot,” Liana said firmly, hands on hips. “You are supposed to be in your classroom.”
Véronique looked over Ford’s shoulder with zero guilt. “I was. Then I wasn’t.”
Ford bit back a smile as Liana shook her head. “Put her down before she thinks she can add ‘escape artist’ to her résumé again.”
He lowered Véronique gently. “Remember what I told you.”
She gave him one more fierce hug around the waist before stepping back. “You’re not allowed to disappear,” she informed him seriously.
“I’ll file that under official policy,” he said.
Satisfied, she trotted off toward the side corridor, Liana trailing after her with a muttered comment about stubborn children and stubborn adults being a dangerous combination.
A minute later, Liana reappeared and jerked her head toward the hall. “Room 3. Your suite awaits.”
Ford followed her down the corridor he now knew by heart. The clinic moved around him with calm efficiency, masked staff and soft voices. Inside the exam room, he took a seat on the edge of the bed.
“Shirt off.” Liana was already snapping on gloves.
He complied, peeling it over the leads still adhered to his chest.
She detached the halter monitor first, careful with the adhesive patches. “Let’s see what you’ve been up to.” She glanced at the small device as it powered down.
“Behaving,” he said.
“Mm-hmm.”
She wrapped the cuff around his arm. “BP 116 over 72. Pulse 64. No irregularity.” She listened to his lungs, then his heart. “Clear. You look human again.”
“I’ll try not to take that personally.”
She gave him a sideways look. “Don’t.”
The door opened soundlessly. Eira stepped in wearing her white coat, her hair pulled back, her mask in place and tablet in hand. Her eyes found his immediately, pausing there a fraction of a second longer than strictly professional. “You kept the monitor on.”
“I like living,” he replied.
“Good.”
She stepped closer, scanning the data Liana handed over. “No arrhythmias overnight. No tachy spikes. Not even around the time you were with Véronique. Hydration adequate.” She looked up at him. “How do you feel?”
“Like I slept,” he said. “For real.”
A flicker of approval crossed her eyes. “That’s progress.” She stepped into his space then, fingers resting lightly at his wrist to confirm his pulse herself.
Her touch was clinical. But he felt it anyway. “You’re cleared for light activity. Structured walks. No elevation runs. No heroics.”
He nodded. “I was thinking of something more… moderate.”
Her brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”
He held her gaze. “Dinner,” he said evenly. “With you.”
Liana made a small choking sound that she disguised poorly as a cough.
Eira didn’t look away from him. “This is a medical follow-up,” she said calmly.
“It is,” he agreed. “And I passed.”
The room held the faint scent of antiseptic and ocean air drifting through the slatted window. “You’re still under observation.”
“Five minutes by Jeep,” he countered softly.
Her eyes narrowed just enough to signal she understood exactly what he was doing. “And if I say no?”
“I’ll accept that,” he said. “And I’ll still show up for rechecks.”
Silence stretched between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable.
Finally, she stepped back, tablet tucked against her hip. “Dinner, no later than seven. You hydrate. You sit. You do not turn it into a strategic briefing.”
His mouth curved slowly. “Yes, Doctor.”
“And if your heart rate spikes,” she added coolly, “I’m ending it.”
He almost laughed. “Fair.”
Liana clapped her hands once. “Well. I’ll go tell the kitchen to prepare something that won’t kill either of you.”
As she slipped out, Eira looked at him again. Not as a patient. Not entirely as a physician. “Seven,” she repeated.
He nodded. For the first time in a long time, anticipation felt healthier than adrenaline.
NEW ORLEANS
Rain slicked the streets of the French Quarter, quieting the usual sounds of the city.
Inside their old shotgun house, the walls breathed with warmth and memory.
In his little girl’s room, soft lamplight pooled across the hardwood floor.
Hunter Montgomery stood silently by the bed, arms crossed, watching his daughter sleep.
Beatrix lay still, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the rain outside. One hand was fisted around the ear of her stuffed giraffe, the other tucked beneath her cheek. In the soft glow, the resemblance hit him again—not just to Selma, but to Eira.
His baby sister’s face lingered in his daughter’s. The same jawline. The same furrowed brow even in sleep. That stubborn Montgomery look that said, I’m not afraid; I just haven’t decided how to fight you yet.
Behind him came the familiar pad of bare feet. Selma’s arms slid around his waist, her cheek pressing into his shoulder blade. “You’ve been up here a while. She okay?”
“She’s perfect,” he said softly.
Selma moved to his side and looked into his face. “But you’re not.”
Hunter shook his head once, just a faint motion, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “I pressed Ian,” he said, voice low. “Told him I couldn’t go on not knowing where she is. That I have the right to know.”
Selma looked up from where her fingers curled around his, sensing the shift in him. “And?”
He exhaled. “He told me.”
A beat passed before he spoke again. “She’s on Kasavoa in the Seychelles. He put her there—years ago. Said she wanted space to keep breathing. Said she didn’t want me to know. God, Sel, she didn’t want me to know. He honored her request. He hoped I’d understand.”
Selma’s eyes softened. “And do you?”
Hunter’s jaw clenched. “Ian said she spiraled after losing a man she loved in Afghanistan. A colleague reached out to him. The NGO was supported by Chase. He was the one who got her out. Not the Army. Not State. Ian. She wouldn’t come home.
Wouldn’t talk. Said she disappeared when the flight landed in India to refuel. Just vanished into the wind.”
He rubbed a hand down his face, weariness laced in every line. “She carried too much. Saw too much. And when she finally broke, she didn’t want any of us to see the pieces.”
Selma stayed quiet, letting him talk.
“Ian said she barely came back to life in Mumbai. It took him a year to find her. She was in the slums, working with nothing. No backup, no supply chain. Just her hands and her grief. He found her in a concrete clinic with stolen meds and a hundred street kids calling her Docteur Eira. Her first name became her last.”
His voice cracked just slightly. “I asked him why he didn’t tell me where she was sooner.”
Selma squeezed his hand. “And what did he say?”
Hunter looked over at her. “He said I wasn’t ready. He said he didn’t want me to show up on her doorstep.”
Selma’s brow knit. “Do you believe that?”
“I hated it at first. But now…” He swallowed hard. “I would’ve charged after her, demanding she come home. He was protecting her. He knew what I’d do. He was right.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I wasn’t there when she shattered, Selma. I never saw it happen. I was always the one patching others up, but I didn’t see my own sister unraveling.”
Selma absorbed that, her expression tightening. “After all these years…”
“She’s changed,” Hunter said, his voice low. “Ian said she’s harder now. Runs a clinic and an orphanage. Keeps everyone at arm’s length. He said she hasn’t stopped punishing herself.”
Selma reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. “Do you think she might be ready to see you?”
“Ian told me more.” His voice caught in his throat. “The man she lost in Afghanistan… someone she loved… He and her entire team died in an IED blast. She made it, and they didn’t. She tried to save him. Survivor’s guilt.”
Selma closed her eyes.
“She didn’t tell anyone,” Hunter went on. “Not even me. I was writing to her about coming to work with me while she was holding him in the sand and trying to stop the bleeding.”
He turned away from his daughter’s room, the pain raw in his voice. “I’m her brother. I should’ve known.”
“You didn’t fail her.” Selma stepped in close. “You had your own grief. You’d lost Pam. Grief doesn’t care about who you are to someone. It only knows where it can hide. You know that better than most.”
Hunter nodded slowly, but the guilt didn’t leave his eyes. “It’s just… I know what it’s like. To think you’re about to lose everything. Where was my empathy?”
Selma sighed.