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“Victim’s name is Lindsey,” Faron said, flashing a badge at security. “Seventeen. Detective Keane is en route, but we’re not waiting.” He cut me a look. “Keep your head up. If this crew thinks she talked…”
“They’ll come looking,” I finished. “Got it.”
We found her in a curtained bay—small, pale, bruises like constellations across her arms. A nurse stood between her and the rest of the world, chart in one hand, the other resting lightly on Lindsey’s wrist like she was anchoring her here. Dark hair braided over one shoulder. Green eyes that didn’t miss a thing.
“Family?” the nurse asked, and then clocked us—posture, boots, the way Faron’s gaze kept mapping exits. Her guard softened, just a degree. “You’re not family.”
“No,” Faron said. “We’re the ones who want to keep her alive.”
Her attention slid to me, pinning me like a thumbtack. “And you are?”
“Carter.” I kept my voice even. “New guy.”
One corner of her mouth tugged—there and gone. “Welcome to the deep end.” She angled her clipboard. “Harper Vale. Trauma nurse. She was dehydrated, hypothermic, and terrified. Two men, black SUV, no plates. One wore a wedding band on a chain. Weird detail, but she noticed.”
“Victims notice everything they think might save them,” Aponi said quietly from behind me. The nurse—Harper—gave her a look of quick, sharp respect.
“Lindsey,” Harper said gently, shifting so we could see the girl’s face without her feeling boxed in. “These are… good people. They’re here to help.”
Lindsey flinched at our boots, at the radio clip on Faron’s vest. Harper’s hand never left her wrist. The girl’s voice came out in a whisper, dragged over gravel. “They said if I talked, they’d come back for my sister.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” I asked, softer than I felt. “Just the name.”
“Ellie.” Lindsey blinked hard. “She’s fourteen.”
“Okay.” I kept my breaths slow. “Ellie’s our problem now, not yours.”
Harper’s eyes met mine for a second, heat flashing there—approval, warning, I couldn’t tell. Either way, it roped a steady line around something inside me that had been drifting.
We handled the details as carefully as if we were defusing a bomb. Harper told us what she had learned: a scent like motor oil and cologne; a tattoo—compass rose—on the inside of one guy’s wrist. Aponi typed, cross-referencing previous arrests. Faron called Keane with the update. I logged times, routes, and quickly threw up mental geofences, just like I used to map avalanche risk on the mountain.
It was neat, clean, almost clinical—until Harper’s phone vibrated on the counter and her face changed.
“What is it?” Aponi asked.
Harper turned the screen toward us. A single text from an unknown number, sent to the hospital’s main line and forwarded to the unit:Discharge the girl. Now.
Faron’s hand went to his radio. “We’re locking this down.”
Before he could press the button, the overhead speakers hiccuped, then droned: “Security to ER. Security to ER.”
Harper’s jaw clenched. “They never page like that unless—”
“Unless someone wants us to panic,” I said. “Or someone’s already inside.”
We moved. Faron pushed out to check the hall. Aponi slid her body between Lindsey and the door like it was muscle memory. I stepped to the curtain edge and lifted it with two fingers.
Two men in maintenance blues strolled past, too synchronized for strangers. Their hands were empty. Their eyes were wrong.
“Left,” I murmured.
Faron didn’t look back. He just vanished into their wake.
The air in the little bay thinned. Harper leaned in close to Lindsey. “Look at me,” she said, voice soft but unshakeable. “You’re safe. These people are here to keep you safe.”
The girl inhaled in short, panicked snatches, the kind that never reach the bottom of your lungs. Harper matched her—slow, measured breaths until Lindsey’s synced to hers. It was a small miracle in a place built for big ones.
I watched her do it and felt something shift under my ribs. Not attraction. Not yet. Recognition.
