Page 7 of Savage Beauty

Sloane says something to Sage I can’t hear. Knox smirks. Intriguing. Sloane’s voice grows louder. “I’m not stupid. I agreed to meet him. I had my bike. He showed up after I finished a report. I needed a break before I double-checked the numbers in my analysis.”

“You met him in your lab?” Tristan asks for clarification.

“I thought he was an investor. They were there earlier in the week, and I overheard them. They were referencing incorrect financial projections. I didn’t want them to cut funding, so I dug deeper into the data.”

“What data?” Tristan asks.

Sloane’s lips purse as she presses her temple.

Sage leans closer. “Sloane?”

“Transplant survival rates. I overheard people talking in the Bodden building. And the numbers cited were significantly off. Yet familiar. It bothered me. I went back and checked peer reviewed research. I was right.”

“About what?” Sage combs her fingers through Sloane’s hair, the movement as soft and comforting as her tone of voice.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sloane’s gaze settles on the top right corner of the room. “You won’t understand.”

Sage smiles and continues combing her sister’s hair with her fingers. “You’re right. I probably won’t. Can you still tell me? Simplify it. Tell me like I’m a third grader.”

The Interpol suit leans forward, losing his patience with the sister talk, and asks, “Sloane, the Bodden building. Is that part of Origins Laboratories?”

“Yes. We don’t do research in that building, but they hold meetings there. Investor meetings.”

Sage brings her sister back around to the questions we all have. “So, I’m a third grader. What were they wrong about?”

“The survival rates they were referencing were wrong. Five to ten percent off. More. The complications. Hepatitis C. Cancer. And they weren’t comparing live versus dead donors. They were just…wrong. I needed to show them they were wrong, because if they believed those numbers were right, they might not continue funding my research.”

“And exactly what research do you do?” Tristan interrupts.

“Organoid research. I’m working on growing organs from stem cells.”

“Past fourteen days?” Tristan asks. This is where we’d known she was breaking international law, but I don’t get the sense anyone really cares about that law.

“Yes, past fourteen days. We’re making progress, too. Growing organs in a lab is an ethical solution to the world organ shortage. But the survival rates the investors touted were off. And I figured it out.”

“What was wrong with their numbers?” Tristan prompts.

“They were quoting numbers from studies coming out of India and Taiwan. Both studies attempted to discern variations in results on black market organs. Gathering black market data is quite difficult. For obvious reasons. Anyway, I spent a week compiling a report on all black-market transplant surgeries versus both live and dead organ transplant surgeries in the United States and the United Kingdom and prepared a discourse on the variations and how lab-grown organs would not suffer the same results as those in alternative countries. I also located more recent data on our server from non-specified locations. The location field had been deleted, but I located the source file. The results were noteworthy and worth peer review. It appears survival rates on black market organs are trending downward in specific source regions. The cancer rates for three years post-surgery for recipients with organs sourced from specific regions in Asia were extraordinarily high. Twenty to thirty percent higher than standard norms. Obviously, it needs to be shared broadly. Peer review. I might have missed something. Tabulated something incorrectly.”

“Did you share this report with anyone?” Tristan asks.

“No. The psychopath arrived before I double-checked my analysis. I’d been working on it for days. I saved it to the network, but I wanted to review it again before sharing it with my boss.”

“Did you talk to Anton Solonov about your work?”

“No.”

“Did he inquire about your research?”

“No.”

“So, what happened? After you left the lab?” Sage asks. I’m not sold on the heart of gold, but she’s got the patience of Job.

“I woke up vomiting in the bottom of a boat. I thought I would die. When we made it to land, I told him I would do anything as long as he didn’t make me ride in a boat again.”

“I thought you said you didn’t get in the car?—”

“I didn’t. He gave me a water bottle. The last thing I remember is him driving alongside me while I walked my bike on the sidewalk. I could see the marina, but I was so tired. He must have drugged the water.”

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