Page 15 of Vital Signs
"Hunter? Jesus, man. How you were?"
"Surviving," I said, leaning against the counter. My reflection in the glass looked haggard, desperate. Everything I was trying not to be around Misha. "Need to ask you about Dr. Wright. The research trials he runs through here."
Behind me, Misha shifted closer. His chest nearly pressed against my back as he pretended to look at a health poster. The heat from his body made my skin prickle. Made it hard to think.
But there was something calculated in the way he moved. The way he let his shoulder brush mine just a beat too long. Like he knew exactly what effect he was having on me and was using it.
Smart bastard.
Part of me wanted to turn around, crowd him against the wall, make him feel as off balance as I did. The other part—the part that still had some self-preservation—knew that would be a terrible idea in a public clinic.
So I stayed facing forward, let him play his game, and tried to ignore how good he felt pressed against me.
Carlos's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "What about them?"
"You process the participants, right? Handle their files when they come in for monitoring?"
"Sometimes." Carlos leaned back and crossed his arms. "Why?"
"A friend of mine died," I said, cutting to it. "Tyler Graham. Twenty-six years old, found dead with Wright's experimental drugs in his system."
Carlos's face went pale. "Tyler Graham? Yeah, I remember him. He was in a couple of Wright's trials. Stopped showing up for his last few appointments."
"Have you noticed anything unusual? Higher dropout rates? Emergency room visits?"
Carlos glanced around, making sure we weren't being overheard. "You know I can't give you specifics. But yeah, there've been some concerns. At least six ER visits in the past three months. All Wright's trial participants. Cardiac irregularities, respiratory distress, severe anxiety episodes."
"And Wright knows about these visits?" Misha asked.
Carlos looked at him more carefully, taking in the expensive clothes, the perfect posture, the way Misha held himself like he expected to be obeyed. Like he was used to being the most important person in any room. "You are?"
"A friend." Misha's voice was smooth as silk. "I work in mortuary services. I've been helping Hunter investigate Tyler's death."
"Yeah, Wright knows," Carlos said. "He gets copies of all emergency department reports for his participants. Part of the monitoring protocol."
The bastard knew. Knew people were getting sick, dying, and kept going anyway.
"What about dosage adjustments?" I pressed. Misha's thumb had started tracing small circles against my spine, hidden by the angle of his body. "Any changes to protocols?"
"That's getting into specifics I really can't—" Carlos froze, eyes widening as he stared over my shoulder.
I turned.
Dr. Elliot Wright stood at the reception desk, talking to the front desk staff. He looked exactly like his university photo. Expensive suit, perfectly styled silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses.
My entire body went cold, then blazing hot. Four years of shame and rage crystallized into pure panic. "Fuck." The word barely made it past my lips.
Misha followed my gaze and went still. "That's him?"
I nodded.
Wright was finishing his conversation, already turning toward us.
"We need to go." But my feet wouldn't move.
"No." Misha's voice dropped to something dangerous. "This is perfect."
"Misha—"
