Page 73 of Deadly Force
She follows my line of sight. "Are you aware of your legal rights under Arizona’s new constitutional protection for abortion care?"
My throat tightens. I wish I wasn’t. Lawrence and most of the newsroom were celebrating them. “Yes.”
She taps a few things on the screen, then continues like she’s reading from a checklist, because she probably is.
"Would you like to speak with one of our physicians today?"
"No."
"Do you need information about financial assistance or insurance options?"
"No."
"Okay. I’ll mark that you’re electing to continue with self-managed options and not request further consultation today."
Self-managed?
As if sanitizing the language changes what's actually happening.
With difficulty, I hide my disgust and force the opening I need.
“Was Eliza Moreno still working here before she died?”
The nurse blinks. “Who?”
I offer a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little rattled. Eliza was a friend of mine. She told me she worked here; that’s why I chose this clinic.” I pause and watch her reaction. “She died a few days ago.”
My throat tightens on cue. No effort needed there. “I had no idea she was… you know. Struggling that badly.”
The counselor blinks, her face all concern and clean lines. “I don’t recognize the name. Do you know what department she worked in?”
I shrug. “She didn’t say. Front office, maybe?”
She taps again, expression unchanged. “That name doesn’t show up in our current staff log. But we are in the process of moving everything over to the new system. She might not have been transferred just yet.”
Rats. I have no idea when Eliza might’ve been here, if she was at all. Either it’s old data or the caller got it wrong.
“Right. Sorry. Just… needed to ask.”
The moment shifts—back to routine, back to protocol. “Let’s get your ultrasound scheduled.”
Panic ripples through me at the word “ultrasound.”
Of course they need to confirm a pregnancy.
I chew the inside of my cheek. "Actually," I say, rising with what I hope passes as casual, "could I use the restroom first?"
She gestures toward the hallway. “Second door on the right.”
I thank her, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse hammers in my throat. I can feel her eyes on me as I exit and close the door behind me.
I reach the restroom door and pause, fingers grazing the handle. Behind me, the hallway stays quiet, just the distant murmur of the waiting room and the low hum of overhead lights. No one’s watching. No one expects anything but a nervous woman killing a few minutes before a procedure.
I glance down the hall. A handful of doors line the corridor, but one catches my attention—unmarked, slightly ajar. It looks more like an admin office than a patient room. Nothing medical about it. The kind of space people overlook until someone’s inside it.
Caleb told me to play it safe: go in, come out, head straight back.
But if Eliza worked here, even for a short time, her name, or something tied to her, could be behind that door.
