Page 78 of Doctored Vows

After paying the total and grimacing about the recent upsurge in pricing, I move to the side of the glass cabinets to collect the sugar packets needed to make the pre-brewed coffee decent enough to digest.

I’ve barely stuffed the packets into my pocket when a glossy printout is slapped down on the counter in front of me. It is a grainy photograph of Dr. Abdulov. I’m not well-versed on the multiple entry and exit points of Myasnikov Private, but this exit point is easily identifiable since it is the main one most doctors and nurses use.

I lift my eyes from Dr. Abdulov’s ashen face when a badge and Myasnikov PD credentials are placed on top of it.

I’ve been anticipating repercussions for the words we exchanged weeks ago, but I would have never anticipated for it to take this route.

Why bring in the authorities on a case that should be handled by the hospital board?

I realize I have the situation all wrong when a second photograph is placed on top of the first one. This one isn’t as grainy, and I somewhat recognize the man with snow-white hair and an arrogant smile but not enough to put a name to his face.

He’d be mid-to-late fifties and has the aura of wealth, not someone I generally associate with. He is approximately thirty years older than the third, and what I hope, final man photographed. His face is also registering as familiar, but I can’t pinpoint exactly how I know him.

“Who are these men?” I ask as my wide gaze bounces between two plain-clothed officers.

The female half of the duo is approximately the same age and build as me. Her hair is glossy and inky, pairing well with her almost-black eyes, and her frame is several sizes smaller than her male partner, who is glaring at me with so much disdain I’ll need to check for burns once freed from his gawk.

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know who they are?” asks the male officer, scoffing.

“I know who Dr. Abdulov is, obviously, but the names of the other two gentlemen have me stumped.” Frustration bubbles in my veins, but I try not to let it be seen or heard. Even with the male officer choosing the role of bad cop, it isn’t his fault he’s been brought into a fight he doesn’t belong in. “If these men are patients of mine?—”

I choke on my words when the gray-haired man snaps out, “These men are dead.”

“Allegedly,” the female officer jumps in, lowering my blood pressure by a smidge. “Dr. Hoffman, I’m Detective Lara Sonova from Trudny PD, and this is Detective Ivan Mutz, lead investigator at Myasnikov PD.” Ivan practically grunts at me when Lara waves her hand at him in introduction. “We’ve joined taskforces to investigate the disappearance of three individuals we believe you may have come in contact with last weekend.”

Forever willing to assist, and desperate to hide my shock that I do know these men, I say, “Dr. Abdulov and I work together, but I can’t recall where I associated with the other two gentlemen.”

In under a second, some of my confusion lifts—not a lot. Just a little.

The gate number on the surveillance image Ivan places down matches the gate number Zoya and I used last week, and the air hostess scanning the middle-aged man’s ticket is the same one who ushered us down the gangway when I arrived late.

It is clear we shared the same flight, but that doesn’t alter the facts.

“I boarded late. My fellow passengers had already embarked.”

My eyes shoot to Ivan when he says, “He was seated two rows in front of you.”

I don’t appreciate his tone, and it has my reply coming out as snappily as his expression. “Two cubicles in front of me. Visibility is far lower in first class compared to economy.”

“I’m sure it is. Though I’ll have to take your word on it since I’ve never flown first class.” Ivan steps closer, attempting to intimidate me with his large frame. “Is flying across the country first class something you do often, Doctor?” He spits out the title I’ve worked hard for as if it is trash.

“It isn’t a luxury I often seek out, but a friend purchased us an upgrade?—”

“Friend? Ha!”

His rudeness shocks me, but I’ve handled my fair share of arrogant, conceited men, so I take his unprofessionalism in stride—mostly. “Yes, friend.” With the curtesy I usually offer fellow public servants obliterated, I look him straight in the eyes before saying, “If you’re trying to imply her generosity was something more lurid than it was, you better have more than a sliver of conjecture.”

I can take the hits of life better than anyone, but when it comes to people I care about, all bets are off. I will protect them until my last breath.

I stumble back, shocked when Ivan snarls, “I have enough to issue an arrest warrant right now.”

“For what? Booking the same flight as another two-hundred-plus people?”

“Accessory after the fact can be liable for twenty-five to life.” He’s once again up in my face, his breath heavy on my cheek. “Three men were murdered, and you were on the scene before every single hit.”

I can’t breathe, speak, or move when he slams down image after image after image. My recollection of the third man is basic, but it is clear I associated with him more than a doctor would a patient when half of the shots show him standing directly across from me.

A Tahiti-style bar separates us in a majority of the time-stamped images until the last three. It shows him in an elevator with Zoya, Aleena, Shevi, and me.

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