Her face is striking. It’s the subtle kind of pretty that sneaks up on you, like the girl next door. Her soft mouth settles into a natural pout while she focuses on a chart, thick lashes casting faint shadows beneath her big brown eyes. The faint dark circles beneath them scream long hours and not enough sleep. She is short—really short—maybe topping five feet on a generous day with an equally small frame. So petite that a stiff breeze might blow her away.
Her long, dark brown hair is pulled into a high, spirited ponytail with a stubborn curl pulling free at the nape of herneck. I have the completely inappropriate urge to reach out and tuck it back into place.
She looks young, too,barelyold enough to be a doctor.
She also looks out of place. Not just in this worn-down hospital, but in this city—like someone dropped a small-town American girl into a war zone and forgot to pick her back up.
After thanking the nurse, we walk the hallway toward Dr. Hart. I catch her attention as she finishes scribbling and hands the chart to someone behind the counter. When she turns to face us, her posture stiffens, and her eyes sharpen instantly as she catalogs us both—me especially—with clinical precision. Her jaw tightens subtly as we approach.
“Dr. Hart?” Damon asks, his tone sounding extra friendly.
“Yes,” she replies, standoffish, crossing her arms over her chest. Her voice is calm and steady. “How can I help you?”
“We’re looking into the disappearance of a patient. Maryam Kadir.” The name causes a reaction in the doctor before I even finish saying it. It’s a subtle shift in her posture that disappears as quickly as it started. It is gone so fast that, if my gut didn’t hold onto it, I would have thought I imagined it.
She schools her expression almost immediately. “I’ve already answered countless questions about her.”
“We know,” Damon insists gently, taking the conversation over. “We would just like to hear it from you directly.”
Her gaze shifts back and forth between us before settling on me. It’s a hard look, her chin tipping toward the ceiling theslightest bit. I’m uncertain if she’s sizing me up or daring to underestimate her.Something I can only assume men do to her frequently.“I don’t know where she is,” she practically huffs her annoyance at our questioning. “I didn’t then, and I still don’t now.”
Damon nods. “We’re not accusing you of anything. Just trying to piece together a timeline before she disappeared.”
She tightens her arms across her body, not defensively but protectively. The movement draws my attention to how small she really is, how that posture looks more like armor than attitude. “Maryam came in needing medical care. There were complications. She was stabilized, and after that, she was discharged.”
“Discharged by whom?” I ask.
She hesitates, and her gaze flits down the hallway briefly. “By the attending physician.”
“Who was?”
“Me,” she answers after a moment of hesitation.
I arch a brow, unable to help myself. “Youngest attending I’ve met in a while.”
Her eyes flash with disdain. “I’m plenty qualified.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I reply smoothly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Just being observant.”
She doesn’t smile back. Instead, the tension in her shoulders ratchets up another notch.
“And after discharge?” Damon prompts.
“As I’ve told everyone else who asked the same question, I’m a doctor, not a social worker.” Her tone grows increasingly sassy before she reins it in. “I don’t know what my patients do or where they go when they leave. It’s a struggle enough with our limited resources to take care of them as it is.”
“And her husband,” I press. “You talked to him?”
Her lips purse slightly, and a visible shiver runs through her despite the sweltering heat. “Yes,” she answers timidly, every bit of that boldness suddenly gone. “Briefly. Before I treated her.”
“And you didn’t talk to him after?”
With her jaw tight, she shakes her head. She stares up at me, and her subtle body language speaks volumes that she isn’t.The husband spooks her.Instead of calling her out on it, I soften my tone and politely thank her for her time. She nods curtly and returns her attention to the pile of charts on the desk. I walk away certain of two things: she knows more than she’s saying, and she is not as tough as she wants us to believe.
Outside, the heat is thicker and heavier than before. Damon unlocks the Jeep and slides into the driver’s seat. I stand beside my open door as he turns over the engine, staring back at the hospital entrance.
“What are you thinking?” Damon asks as I slip into the vehicle and shut my door.
I exhale slowly. “She’s hiding something.”
