Page 26 of Savage Seduction

As I begin to soak the wine up from the table, my thoughts churn wildly. That scar—large, jagged, unmistakable—it's familiar in a way that sends shivers down my spine. I’ve seen it before, not on some random stranger in the street, but in the sterile, bright lights of an operating room. The realization hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

Could Max have been a patient of mine? The odds seem astronomical, yet the scar’s unique contours haunt me with the precision of a memory I can’t fully grasp. I remember the surgery, a desperate case, a young man brought in with a wound so severe it was a miracle he survived. Hadn’t that young man been a survivor of the most notorious serial killerThe Butcher? My blood runs cold. But was that young man, Max? Could it have been?

I toss the ruined cloth into the sink, water splashing up to dot my shirt with its cold embrace. Ethics swirl through my mind—a maze of professional obligations and personal feelings. If Max was my patient, revealing that fact could change everything between us. It could be seen as a breach of trust, yet keeping it to myself feels equally deceitful, especially when our relationship may hinge on the truths we share or the secrets we keep.

I need to be sure before I say anything to Max. The Chief of Surgery at the hospital might remember or at least guide me on how to handle this without violating HIPAA regulations. Our computer systems are secure, a fortress of privacy, which means I can't just pull up Max’s records on a hunch. I need a valid reason, something more than a nagging feeling stirred up by a scar seen in a moment of vulnerability.

As I wipe down the counters, my mind replays the evening—the laughter we shared, the way Max’s eyes lit up in conversation, how comfortable it felt just being near him. He’s remarkable, and in the soft glow of my kitchen lights, he seemed almost ethereal, a stark contrast to the very real fear that flashed across his face when he caught me staring at his scar.

Am I even worthy of someone like Max? Doubts creep in, uninvited but persistent. He’s vibrant, alive in ways that challenge the quiet routine of my life. What if he’s too much for me? What if my own insecurities tarnish this thing that’s just beginning to bloom between us?

Shaking my head, I try to dispel the dark thoughts clouding my mind. I need to focus on what’s important—figuring out the truth about the scar and its implications for both our pasts. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to the Chief. I’ll find a way to navigate this without causingunnecessary pain.

For now, though, the kitchen is clean, and the echoes of our evening together linger in the air like a promise. I switch off the light, the last vestiges of doubt mingling with a cautious hope. Maybe, just maybe, we can find a way through this—whatever this turns out to be.

CHAPTER 12

Max

The following morning comes too soon. The dark circles under my eyes age me in the way only a fitful and restless night's sleep can. If I'd slept a solid two hours before the alarm went off, it would have been a miracle.

The gurgle of the last little bit of coffee coming through the filter brings a sense of life back to my body. The sixteen-ounce mug sits at the ready, and I pour myself two-thirds coffee and one-third chocolate milk with a scoop of sugar. After stirring the delicious concoction, I take a sip.

"Ah, perfect," I say. I’ve been up for a while now, and even put out food and water for Chubs, but the cat hasn’t shown himself yet. London has yet to contact me with any news, but she is really careful with the way she does things—often taking longer than I would expect. Since I have to work today, I hope to receive a call from her soon, so I don't worry about it my entire shift.

Wandering around the small apartment double-clutching the warm ceramic mug, I head back toward the bathroom. With a quick spray of Windex and a paper towel, I clean the mirror so I can take a shower without any upsetting messagesappearing once again. But before I can turn on the water, an unexpected knock at the door makes me jump. Maybe London has news she couldn’t talk about over the phone? I hurry to the door, swinging it open.

"Max?" the short, bald man asks.

"Yes?" I close the door a little since I don’t recognize him. "What can I do for you?"

"I need your signature here," he says, handing me an electronic pad and stencil. "You’ve got a delivery."

I sign the pad and hand it back to him. "Who’s it from?"

The older gentleman shrugs and gives me a small box wrapped in what looks like light brown butcher paper. I take the box. "Thank you."

As the man turns to leave, I take a good look at the guy. He isn’t wearing a uniform. The box doesn’t have any postal markings or shipping tags. I close the door and bring the box over to the kitchen table and sit. I set the box down and turn it 360 degrees. The paper is clean, and the box is well wrapped, professional looking. There’s a ribbon tied around it both lengthwise and width, and the address label simply reads: Max Salgado and then my address is listed below my name.

The penmanship is hard to determine gender. It's very neat and legible but nothing jumps out about it. I lift the package and give it a little shake. Nothing moves inside. It isn’t heavy enough to be a bomb, thank goodness. I pull at the white ribbon, and it falls away easily, revealing twine securing the box. Brown butcher paper and twine? Too coincidental.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and call London.

"Good morning," London says with a yawn. "You’re up kind of early, aren’t you?"

"I didn’t sleep well. My mind wouldn’t really shut off."

"Really sorry I didn’t get much of a chance to dig around on what we talked about." London is vague as Ifigured she would be since she, of all people, knows how easy it is to hack someone’s cell phone or eavesdrop.

"No worries," I say. "I’m actually calling about something similar, but equally as important. Possibly even more so."

There's a pause on the other end as London no doubt racks her brain to figure out what I mean. "How do you want to proceed?"

"I think we should meet up at our usual spot." I’m not sure if that will actually be enough information as we meet up pretty much everywhere.

London must be thinking the same thing because she laughs. "Our usual before or after school?"

"Before."

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