Keaton （Skee） #2
Hundreds of results populate the screen. Different women. Different birthdays. Different states. I narrow it.
Illinois. Female. First encounter eight weeks ago. Follow-up encounter two weeks ago.
The list drops from hundreds...to seventeen.
Still too many. I keep refining. Approximate age. Height. Cash pay. No primary care physician attached.
The cursor spins. Then stops. One patient. One chart.
I click it. The driver's license photo loads first.
Maeve.
A slow breath leaves my lungs before I even realize I've been holding it.
"...Jesus."
I open the chart. The first encounter. Forearm contusion.
Patient states she slipped while carrying laundry.
No fracture. Discharged home. The next visit.
Scalp laceration. Four staples. Patient reports striking head on an open cabinet door.
The physician notes she'd avoided eye contact throughout the exam.
Something in my jaw locks. Next chart. Rib pain.
Negative for displaced fracture. Patient states she fell down exterior steps.
Provider documents bruising in multiple stages of healing.
Next. Sprained wrist. Kitchen accident. Next.
Facial swelling. Walked into a door. Next.
Shoulder injury. Lost her footing in the garage.
The excuses change. The injuries don't. Every provider accepts the explanation. Every visit stands alone. No one realizes they're looking at the same woman because every record sits under a different county. Different clinics. Different identities.
One victim.
I lean back against the seat, staring at the screen while something cold and violent settles into the center of my chest. This wasn't carelessness. It wasn't bad luck. It was methodical.
Someone had spent months making sure no one physician ever saw enough of the truth to ask the right questions.
My eyes move back to the timeline. Visit after visit. Injury after injury. Excuse after excuse. The mouse creaks beneath my grip.
I don't even realize how hard I'm squeezing it until my knuckles bleach white. "You son of a bitch..."
The words come out low. Barely more than breath. Because all I can see now is Maeve sitting on the bathroom floor with tears running silently down her face.
Trying so damn hard not to let anyone hear her cry. My stomach turns.
He did this. Over…and over... and over again.
Rage spreads through me so fast it almost burns.
Not the reckless kind. The cold kind. The kind that makes your hands steady while your mind starts calculating exactly how much damage you could do.
Before I can reconsider it, I grab my phone and text Callum.
Me:
Need to talk.
The response comes less than thirty seconds later.
Callum Rizzoli:
At Layla’s dance studio tomorrow afternoon.
Come by.
***
The second I step into the dance studio lobby, chaos hits me head-on.
Tiny ballet shoes slap against hardwood floors while a herd of six-year-olds explodes through the double doors in a blur of glitter, oversized dance bags, and pure uncontrolled energy.
My instincts activate automatically.
Exits. Parents. Unknown adults. Potential threats.
Years of training carve through the room before my brain even fully catches up.
One man near the vending machine distracted by his phone. Mother gathering twins near the front desk. Teenager asleep in the corner chair.
Then my eyes land on Layla.
And just like that—my pulse finally settles.
“Skee!”
She launches herself at me at full speed without even slowing down first.
Trusting me to catch her.
I do. Automatically.
She crashes into my chest in a whirlwind of sparkles and little-girl perfume while I hook one arm beneath her legs before she can hit the floor.
The outfit she’s wearing is absolutely criminal.
Rainbow tutu. Sequined jacket. Glitter sneakers.
I stare at her for one long second. Then my eyes land on Callum behind her.
“…You have to hate this outfit.”
Layla grins proudly. “Pops bought it.”
Of course he did.
I laugh quietly before setting her back on her feet.
Somewhere behind her, Callum groans. “Dad’s trying to turn my kid into a disco ball out of spite.”
Layla gasps dramatically. “I am fashionable.”
“Terrifyingly so,” I tell her.
She beams like I just paid her the highest compliment imaginable.
Callum nods his head towards the back while he tells Layla to go hang out with CeCe until he is done.
She skips towards her aunt with the grace of a giraffe.
****
Callum’s office sits in the back corner of the dance studio tucked behind a door covered in glitter handprints and crooked stickers that spell out LAYLA’S ROOM even though it very clearly isn’t.
The second the door shuts behind us, the muffled sound of music and tiny tap shoes fades softer through the walls.
I drop into the chair across from his desk while Callum leans back against the edge of it, arms folded loosely across his chest.
“You look terrible,” he says.
“Good talk.”
“You sleeping?” He stares me down like he can see into my soul.
“Rarely.” I raise a shoulder.
“Hm.” That single sound tells me he’s already noticed more than I want him to.
I pull my laptop from the bag before he can keep digging.
Callum studies me for a long moment before speaking.
"You look like hell."
"I've had better days."
His eyes narrow. "What happened?"
I unzip my backpack and pull out my laptop, setting it on his desk before opening it.
The medical records are still there. Rows of them. More than I want to look at again.
Callum glances from the screen to me. "This doesn't look like financial records."
"It isn't." Quiet stretches between us. "I drove to seven urgent care clinics today."
His brow furrows. "...Why?"
"I had a theory."
"And?"
"I was right." I lean against the back of the chair because suddenly standing feels like too much effort.
"The first two clinics gave me nothing." I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. "The third receptionist couldn't tell me who Maeve was."
"But..."
"But she wanted to." A tired laugh escapes me. "She was good."
"Good enough to protect her patient."
"Good enough to accidentally tell me she'd seen the same woman twice." Callum waits. I know he's trying not to interrupt. "She gave me dates."
His eyes flick to the laptop. "That was enough?"
"It was for me."
I turn the screen toward him. The first chart fills the display. Then the second. Then another.
Callum doesn't say anything as he scrolls.
The office goes painfully quiet. Outside, a little girl squeals before dissolving into laughter. The sound feels wrong in here.
Callum stops scrolling. His jaw flexes once. "...How many?"
"Seven that I found."
"So far?"
I nod. "So far."
He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Jesus."
"Every record's under a different county." I tap one of the files. "Same birthday." Another. "Same face." Another. "Same woman."
His eyes move back to me. "She scattered them. So no one physician ever saw the pattern."
I nod once. "They all treated an isolated injury. "Nobody treated the abuse."
The words hang between us. Heavy. Ugly. Real.
I look away first. "I kept opening charts hoping the next one would be different."
"It wasn't." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "It just kept going."
Neither of us speaks for several seconds. Finally Callum closes the laptop.
"I'll have Pops start pulling every favor he has with the O'Donnells."
"He won't find this."
"No." Callum's expression hardens. "He won't." His eyes stay on me another second too long. "You've been watching her."
It's not a question. I don't answer.
"You've been watching her a lot."
"I've been doing my job."
"The hell you have." The words aren't angry. They're tired. "You drove across half the damn state because something didn't feel right."
I fold my arms across my chest. "I needed proof."
"You needed proof..." Callum nods slowly. "...or you needed to convince yourself you weren't imagining what was happening to her?"
I don't answer. Because I don't know. He studies me for another long moment. "Skee."
"What?"
"Look at me."
I do.
"Don't lose yourself in this."
I let out a humorless laugh. "A little late for that."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He sighs. "She's married."
"I know."
"And if Gallagher figures out someone is watching her—"
"I know." The words come out sharper than I mean them to.
Callum doesn't flinch. "If this turns personal, people get killed."
Silence. Because he's right. Because I know he's right. Because somewhere between the first clinic and the seventh...This stopped being surveillance.
Stopped being an assignment. Stopped being Callum asking me to look into a marriage. I think about Maeve curled up on the bathroom floor. About the excuses typed into chart after chart after chart. Kitchen accident. Fell down the stairs. Walked into a cabinet. Seven versions of the same lie.
I meet Callum's eyes again. "I don't know when it happened." The admission is quiet. Honest. "But every time I opened another chart..." I shake my head once. "...all I could think was that nobody was coming for her."
The office is silent. Callum exhales slowly. Then walks around the desk and rests a hand on my shoulder. "You found her."
I swallow hard. "Yeah."