Chapter 9
Cute little Dr. Blake Hart keeps her routine airtight.
Hospital. Shuttle. Apartment. Repeat. No detours.
No social stops. No late-night errands. Work and home.
Every detail of her life stripped down to function, telling me a lot without needing to delve deeper.
It’s the kind of schedule that says, I don’t have room for mistakes or distractions.
I have followed her for the past three days, watching the perimeter of her building at night, and observing who comes and goes from the hospital each day. For three days, I’ve waited to get inside her apartment. Not because I’m patient, but because impatience gets people caught.
The sun is just starting to dip behind the mountains, and the heat is bleeding out of the concrete in slow, shimmering waves. From a borrowed sedan parked just beyond the security gate, I watch the night unfold like clockwork. The gate rises, and the employee shuttle pulls up to her building.
“There,” I share through the comms, slumping in my seat and adjusting my ball cap lower over my eyes, when Dr. Hart exits the building.
She’s carrying a large tote bag slung cross-body, and her shoulders are slightly hunched, braced for impact.
She pauses for half a second at the curb, scanning the street—not obviously, but enough that I catch it as she glances left, right, and down the street.
Something about the way she carries herself and always seems to be looking for a threat puts me on edge.
“Visual confirmed.” Hawk’s voice crackles through my ear. Hawk has been running perimeter on her residence the past couple of days, with Damon and Gunnar rotating relief between the two of us. Tonight, Hawk is going to tail her to the hospital so I can run a little recon.
She climbs onto the shuttle bus, walks to the rear, and takes a window seat. The doors hiss shut, and the diesel engine purrs.
“Bus is rolling,” Hawk confirms. “You’re clear. And we’re out.”
I don’t waste time. After slipping out of the sedan, I cross the street at a casual pace.
The checkpoint is exactly what I am expecting: one disinterested security guard, his attention focused entirely on the glowing phone in his hand.
I flash a smile and nod like I belong as I walk past him.
Not that he even remotely gives a shit. That’s it.
That’s all it takes to breach her building.
“Security is a joke,” I grumble, making my way up to the building.
“No kidding,” Gunnar replies. “You’ve got about two minutes before the other guard pretends to do his internal sweep.”
I take the stairs instead of the elevator. It’s quieter, faster, and like most buildings, there are no cameras in the stairwells. The floor carries the scent of detergent and burnt popcorn. It’s lived-in and practical.
Walking with purpose, I make my way to her door. Apartment 4G. The lock is basic. Too basic. After pulling my knife from the sheath on my thigh, I slip the blade between the door and the frame. It gives easily. I barely need to twist the hilt for the lock to pop and the door to open.
The apartment is exactly what I expected, and still manages to surprise me.
It’s small, clean, with not an inch of wasted space.
Everything is placed with intention. There is no clutter, not a bit of excess.
The air smells faintly of soap and something citrusy, making this place feel a little brighter than it actually is.
“Inside,” I whisper. I move quickly, but carefully. The goal is to be covert, so she never knows we were here.
“I’ve got eyes on the street.” Gunnar crackles through my earpiece.
Her shoes are lined up by the door, a mixture of practical flats and well-worn sneakers.
A narrow bed, reminiscent of a luxury army cot, is shoved against the far wall.
To my left is a tiny kitchenette. To my right, a desk neatly stacked with medical journals and notebooks filled with neat, disciplined handwriting.
I open the desk drawer to find pens arranged by color, sticky notes perfectly stacked, and little containers sorting various clips by size.
She likes control. Tucked into a small notebook, I find a photograph of a much younger Blake standing between an older couple, who I assume are her parents.
She’s sporting the same perky ponytail as the day we met, but her smile is different.
It’s wide and unguarded. The kind of happiness that hasn’t been dampened by a lifetime of experience and difficult choices.
“Jesus,” I murmur, tucking the photo back where I found it. “You’re way too normal for this fucking mess.”
After making my way through the space, I open the dresser drawers. Her clothes—scrubs and neutral-toned casual clothes—are folded with care. When I open another, I gasp and pause at the surprisingly bright shade of hot pink.
“Jagg—”
“It’s fine, Gunnar. It’s just—”
“Please do not say ‘just’ and ‘panties’ in the same sentence.”
I pull the drawer all the way and can’t help the quiet huff of a laugh that echoes out of me.
The drawer is full of soft, strappy underwear.
Pinks, lavenders, corals, bright and pastel, and an occasional floral pattern.
Cute, and a stark contrast to every other detail I have documented about her to this point.
“Noted. But the doc secretly owns a lot of very adorable underwear.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Gunnar barks. “You’re on the clock. Stop playing with her panties.”
“I’m not playing with them.” I chuckle, carefully refolding the pair in my hand before sliding the drawer shut. Worse… I’m imagining what she looks like in them. “Moving on.”
Beside the bed, I open the drawer of the bedside table only to find myself surprised again.
“Well,” I whisper quietly. “Didn’t see that coming.
” Not one, not two, but three sex toys. I pick one up before I can stop myself.
It’s solid with a giant pink head. Because apparently that’s a theme.
I accidentally press a button on the side, and it roars to life in my palm.
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss, fumbling to shut the thing off as it vibrates like a fucking jackhammer in my hand.
“What did you do?” Gunnar groans before placing the sound of the incessant buzzing. “Is that…”
“Nothing!” I whisper-shout. “It’s just… aggressive. It’s like a mini assault weapon for her clit.”
“Jagger,” Gunnar admonishes me like he’s disciplining a small child. “Put it back.” I comply, slipping it back into the drawer like I’m not thinking about it in use.
I move into the kitchenette, checking the cabinets and the fridge.
Other than the coffee—too much coffee—it isn’t too different from what I’d find in my own apartment.
Single-serve frozen meals, granola bars, and a fridge full of half-eaten containers of street food.
Nothing out of the ordinary. In the trash, I carefully wade through the disposable cups and containers until a crumpled piece of paper wedged between them catches my eye.
I pull it out and smooth it carefully.
You will tell us where she is, eventually.
“Well, that’s not good.”
“What?” Gunnar asks.
“Someone else is looking for Maryam.” Silence stretches over the comms. I run my finger over the tape stuck to the back of the note, and my pulse thrums a little faster. “They threatened Blake. And I think they were here.”
“Here?”
“Yeah,” I reply, shoving the note beneath the trash where I found it. “But this is the only sign of Maryam. There is no other evidence of a pregnant woman or a newborn anywhere in this apartment.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Dad.” I sigh. “I know how to do my job.”
“Well, do it quickly and finish up then. It is time to get the hell out of there,” Gunnar adds. “The guards are about to start their rounds again.”
I move fast, retracing my steps to ensure nothing is out of place, and then wipe down the knob out of habit. As I slip into the stairwell, one thought keeps looping through my head. That cute little doc is in this a hell of a lot deeper than she’s letting on.