Page 79 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

But she doesn’t.

Onto Plan B.

After stopping at a pizza place to fuel up, I nab a copy of the yellow pages from the restaurant’s ancient-looking payphone and begin calling pediatricians.

The phone book is old, so half of the places I call are no longer in business or the number is disconnected. Even the clinics I do get in touch with are unwilling to help me.

“If you aren’t calling for an appointment for yourself or your child, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” one receptionist says. “I am not allowed to give you information about other patients.”

“But the patient I’m asking about is my child,” I explain. “He has been kidnapped and I’m trying to find him, but—”

“I’d suggest calling the police. I can’t help you.” It’s clear by the woman’s voice she thinks I’m deranged. I’m sure I sound like it.

Still, I keep calling.

I sit on a bench along the street for several hours, asking anyone who will pick up the phone if they’ve seen a heavily pregnant woman with a two-month old—the image can’t be an easy one to forget.

No one can tell me anything.

Then I reach the M’s in my search, and my finger stops on one of the names in the list—the Malone Family Practice. The advertisement is a square, listing the names of the doctors in the clinic.

And my heart lights up. There’s a name missing from this list. A name I know well. Or well enough, at least.

I rip the page out of the phone book and run to the bus stop.

Lauren Malone was my lab partner in our cadaver lab at Cornell. We were on the same pre-med track before I switched my focus to being a veterinarian and she went the pediatric route.

It’s been years since we spoke. But it’ll be enough—I hope.

It has to be.

* * *

The Malone Famaily Practice office is a modest space in the center of a long strip mall. But the inside is clean and modern.

The receptionist behind the desk gives me a wide smile as I walk in. “Your name?” she asks, fingers poised over the keyboard.

“Arya George—but I don’t have an appointment.”

The woman’s smile falters. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. We don’t take walk-ins.”

“I’m actually not here for an appointment. I just need to speak with Dr. Malone. Dr. Lauren Malone, that is.” I smile. “She and I are old friends. I just got back into town.”

The receptionist looks to be my age, but the crown of her hair is teased up high, and she’s wearing a floral button-down I’d associate with someone double her age. It may just be her work attire, but I get the sense the woman is a strict rule follower.

She gives me an exaggerated pout. “I’m sorry, but if you want to speak with Dr. Malone, you’ll have to reach out to her yourself. I’m supposed to make medical appointments. Anything else is outside the scope of my duties.”

“I’d love to call her, but I actually lost her phone number. Which is why I came here.” I flash a saccharine smile. “If you could just leave her a message, I would appreciate it.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I don’t schedule Dr. Malone’s social calendar, therefore I—”

“Social calendar?” A woman with long blonde hair and a white doctor’s coat comes out of a back hallway, a stethoscope around her neck. “You can’t be talking about me. I haven’t had one of those in years.” She looks over at me with a blank, friendly expression. “Did I hear you say you were here to see me?”

The receptionist looks smug that Dr. Malone doesn’t remember me.

I never expected her to. I just need to talk with her.

“Hi. Yes, I did. I know you may not remember me, but we actually went to school together. We had biology together. My name is—”

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