“Which is usually our job.”
Hawk steeples his fingers. “What’s her connection to Maryam?”
“Officially?” Mattis says. “She was her attending physician. Unofficially… she went against hospital protocol to treat her.”
I can’t help the grin tugging at my lips as I skim the incident report.
Dr. Hart refused to comply with the family’s directive.
“Atta girl,” I mutter.
Hawk’s gaze flicks to me. “Something you want to share, Jagger?”
“Just appreciating good bedside manners.” I keep scrolling, landing on a photo of her. It’s a candid pull from her socialmedia. Her long brown hair cascades over her shoulders, and her equally dark eyes sparkle as she laughs.
Gunnar scoffs. “You’re appreciating something.”
I ignore him and still staring, I ask, “Married?”
Mattis answers so quickly, I wonder if he’s memorized her file, “No.”
“Boyfriend?”
Gunnar groans loudly. “Jesus Christ, we don’t pay Mattis to help you find a date.”
Finally, I look up, offended. “Shows how much you know. He’s better than any dating app I’ve ever used.”
Gunnar blinks. “What is that supposed to—” He stops himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Never mind.”
Mattis clears his throat again, definitely enjoying this. “To answer your question, no. No boyfriend.”
I shoot Gunnar a triumphant stink-eye. “Wasthatso hard?”
“She’s cute, Jagg,” Mattis adds.
“She is, isn’t she?”
“Objectively speaking.”
Gunnar laughs. “Oh, this is going to be unbearable.”
I glance back at the tablet. At Blake Marie Hart, the Baltimore-born, seemingly perfect, globe-trotting doctor vying for sainthood.
“My gut says we need to keep an eye on her,” Hawk insists. “We need to talk to her again.”
“When?” Gunnar asks.
I grin, already grabbing my tablet to pull up her schedule for this week. “As soon as possible.”
“And you’re leading?” Gunnar asks, suspiciously.
“Obviously,” I start. “I’m by far the most charming.”
“Where are you going?” Gunnar calling across our safe house stops me mid-stride. I have my boots dangling from one hand and car keys in the other, with a smile plastered across my face like I’m not about to walk straight into trouble. I turn to find him standing at the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed, and an expression carved out of granite screaming,don’t test me.Damon glances up from the weapon he is cleaning, while Hawk sits beside him, pretending to be absorbed in his tablet, which means he’s listening intently to every syllable.
“Hospital,” I answer nonchalantly.
Damon practically tosses his gun onto the table as he pushes back his chair. “I’ll come with.”
