Chapter 7
Our Jeep rattles like it’s being held together by spite and rust as Damon muscles it through the narrow alleys of Jadiriah.
The more affluent parts of the city fall away fast as we head toward our destination.
Glass towers become concrete blocks, patched and repatched, different eras and disasters layered on top of each other.
Laundry flaps between balconies like flags surrendering.
I rest my forearm against the open window frame. It does little to cool me, but I let the hot wind dry the sweat coating my skin. The blowing air reeks of exhaust and burning rubber, a smell that only grows stronger as we inch closer to the civil unrest festering in this war-torn side of Jadiriah.
As we drive, my mind doesn’t settle. They keep circling the same question, gnawing at the edges of my focus. How does a woman vanish from a hospital without so much as a ripple?
Damon interrupts my thoughts without taking his eyes off the road. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“Just thinking,” I reply.
“That’s dangerous.” He snorts his joke. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Fuck off,” I deadpan.
The corner of his lips lift as he nods toward the GPS unit suction-cupped crookedly to the windshield. “It’s up ahead.” He makes a left down another narrow alleyway before the Jeep slows to a stop.
I look up, blinking like I’m trying to focus my vision, and stare at the building in front of us. “This,” my voice kicks up an octave with disbelief, “is a hospital?”
Damon pulls his phone from his pocket, double checks the address then gestures broadly with his free hand. “This is the address Abrahim gave us.”
I take in the building, or what remains of it, as I climb out of the Jeep.
The exterior concrete is stained and pitted, like the structure absorbed an explosion.
Or five. Some of the windows are cracked or boarded over, and a faded sign hangs above the entrance, its bolts barely holding it to the wall.
“This place looks like it got bombed last week,” I mutter, closing the passenger door.
“Or like it’s on the verge of being condemned. ”
Damon shrugs. “Both could be true.”
As we step inside, I quickly realize the interior isn’t much better.
The air is thick and stale, heavy with disinfectant that appears to be losing its battle.
The lights flicker overhead, bathing everything in a jaundiced shade of yellow.
The floor tiles are mismatched and cracked.
Along the plaster-speckled walls, patients sit slumped in plastic chairs, their eyes dulled with the monotony of waiting.
This place doesn’t scream abduction site. It whispers neglect.
We flash meaningful credentials that get us wary looks.
Damon does most of the talking, because he’s better at sounding approachable.
Although, I’m pretty sure it’s not just my deep voice that people find intimidating.
I hang back, looming by default. Faces tighten when they notice me as he chats his way toward reluctant compliance.
Upon hearing Maryam’s name, an older nurse with tired eyes and ink-stained fingers glances at the hallway and shares, “You should talk to Dr. Hart.”
“Thank you.” Damon nods. “Where can we find him?”
“Her,” she corrects gently, her hand lifting to point across the waiting area.
I follow her finger to the woman standing near the nurses’ station, and my train of thought derails completely. Dr. Hart is a very cute her, my brain supplies, entirely unhelpfully. She is bent over a chart, brows furrowed with intent concentration.
Her face is striking. It’s the subtle kind of pretty that sneaks up on you, like the girl next door.
Her soft mouth settles into a natural pout while she focuses on a chart, thick lashes casting faint shadows beneath her big brown eyes.
The faint dark circles beneath them scream long hours and not enough sleep.
She is short—really short—maybe topping five feet on a generous day with an equally small frame.
So petite that a stiff breeze might blow her away.
Her long, dark brown hair is pulled into a high, spirited ponytail with a stubborn curl pulling free at the nape of her neck. I have the completely inappropriate urge to reach out and tuck it back into place.
She looks young, too, barely old enough to be a doctor.
She also looks out of place. Not just in this worn-down hospital, but in this city—like someone dropped a small-town American girl into a war zone and forgot to pick her back up.
After thanking the nurse, we walk the hallway toward Dr. Hart.
I catch her attention as she finishes scribbling and hands the chart to someone behind the counter.
When she turns to face us, her posture stiffens, and her eyes sharpen instantly as she catalogs us both—me especially—with clinical precision. Her jaw tightens subtly as we approach.
“Dr. Hart?” Damon asks, his tone sounding extra friendly.
“Yes,” she replies, standoffish, crossing her arms over her chest. Her voice is calm and steady. “How can I help you?”
“We’re looking into the disappearance of a patient.
Maryam Kadir.” The name causes a reaction in the doctor before I even finish saying it.
It’s a subtle shift in her posture that disappears as quickly as it started.
It is gone so fast that, if my gut didn’t hold onto it, I would have thought I imagined it.
She schools her expression almost immediately. “I’ve already answered countless questions about her.”
“We know,” Damon insists gently, taking the conversation over. “We would just like to hear it from you directly.”
Her gaze shifts back and forth between us before settling on me.
It’s a hard look, her chin tipping toward the ceiling the slightest bit.
I’m uncertain if she’s sizing me up or daring to underestimate her.
Something I can only assume men do to her frequently.
“I don’t know where she is,” she practically huffs her annoyance at our questioning. “I didn’t then, and I still don’t now.”
Damon nods. “We’re not accusing you of anything. Just trying to piece together a timeline before she disappeared.”
She tightens her arms across her body, not defensively but protectively.
The movement draws my attention to how small she really is, how that posture looks more like armor than attitude.
“Maryam came in needing medical care. There were complications. She was stabilized, and after that, she was discharged.”
“Discharged by whom?” I ask.
She hesitates, and her gaze flits down the hallway briefly. “By the attending physician.”
“Who was?”
“Me,” she answers after a moment of hesitation.
I arch a brow, unable to help myself. “Youngest attending I’ve met in a while.”
Her eyes flash with disdain. “I’m plenty qualified.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I reply smoothly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Just being observant.”
She doesn’t smile back. Instead, the tension in her shoulders ratchets up another notch.
“And after discharge?” Damon prompts.
“As I’ve told everyone else who asked the same question, I’m a doctor, not a social worker.
” Her tone grows increasingly sassy before she reins it in.
“I don’t know what my patients do or where they go when they leave.
It’s a struggle enough with our limited resources to take care of them as it is. ”
“And her husband,” I press. “You talked to him?”
Her lips purse slightly, and a visible shiver runs through her despite the sweltering heat. “Yes,” she answers timidly, every bit of that boldness suddenly gone. “Briefly. Before I treated her.”
“And you didn’t talk to him after?”
With her jaw tight, she shakes her head.
She stares up at me, and her subtle body language speaks volumes that she isn’t.
The husband spooks her. Instead of calling her out on it, I soften my tone and politely thank her for her time.
She nods curtly and returns her attention to the pile of charts on the desk.
I walk away certain of two things: she knows more than she’s saying, and she is not as tough as she wants us to believe.
Outside, the heat is thicker and heavier than before. Damon unlocks the Jeep and slides into the driver’s seat. I stand beside my open door as he turns over the engine, staring back at the hospital entrance.
“What are you thinking?” Damon asks as I slip into the vehicle and shut my door.
I exhale slowly. “She’s hiding something.”
“Yeah.” He nods, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You get the same feeling about the husband?”
“Absolutely.”
“And?”
I glance at the hospital. “I want to keep eyes on her.”
Damon shoots me a look and sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Are you serious?” he scoffs. “I saw the way you looked at her.”
Shit… Was I that obvious?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I feign ignorance. Silence stretches between us for a moment as the Jeep rattles along the narrow street.
Damon finally breaks the silence. “Loop Hawk in when we get back. And Jagg, do us all a favor and keep your distance.”
I don’t answer, because I already know I can’t.