"I think they might already be here," Zeke says. "We're a small town, easy to watch, hard to secure completely. If I were planning an extraction or elimination, Glacier Hollow would be on my list of vulnerable targets."
"So what's the plan?"
"Surveillance," Zeke says. "Rotating patrols. I'll coordinate with Rhys's department and the federal task force. We watch for anyone who doesn't belong, anyone asking questions, any pattern that suggests reconnaissance."
"And if they do come?"
"Then we respond with everything we've got." Zeke's tone leaves no room for doubt. "This is our town. Our people. We don't let traffickers operate here."
Rhys nods. "I'll reach out to my contacts in the task force. See if there's any intel on network movements in this region. Cross-reference with cases I've been working. Feed everything to Zeke."
They finish their coffee and head out, leaving me alone in the clinic with files that document damage and plans that might not be enough to prevent more.
I spend the next hour updating records, organizing medication schedules, returning calls to patients who need routine follow-ups.
The front door chimes. I look up from my computer.
A man walks in wearing business casual that's trying too hard to look relaxed. Slacks, button-down shirt, lightweight jacket.The kind of outfit someone wears when they want to blend in but don't actually understand the local dress code.
Something about him triggers immediate wariness.
"Can I help you?" I ask.
"I hope so." He pulls out credentials. Federal badge, victim services division. "I'm looking for Traci Vance. I understand she was transferred to Glacier Hollow under guardian care."
The credentials look right at first glance. Federal seal, photo ID, official agency name. But something about the presentation feels rehearsed. Like he's practiced pulling them out in a mirror.
"I'm not at liberty to confirm or deny that I know anyone by that name," I say.
His expression shifts slightly. Annoyance breaking through the professional veneer. "I'm with victim services. This is a federal matter involving a minor?—"
"I'm a physician bound by HIPAA," I cut him off. "I cannot provide any information about patients, potential patients, or confirm whether any individual has or has not received care at this facility."
"Surely you understand the importance of?—"
"What I understand is that you're asking me to violate federal medical privacy law." I keep my voice level. "I will not be doing that. If you have official business, work through proper channels."
His eyes scan the clinic too carefully. Taking in the layout, the exits, the equipment. Not casual observation. Assessment.
Through the window behind him, I can see a dark sedan in the parking lot. Rental plates. Engine running. Someone waiting inside. The driver's silhouette is visible but I can't make out features.
His expression doesn't change but something hardens in his eyes. The professional mask slips for just a second, revealing calculation underneath.
"I understand." He pockets the credentials. "Thank you for your time."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "You know, it's a small town. Word gets around. People talk."
"They do, and one of the things they talk about is out of towners asking for information to which they're not entitled," I say.
He leaves. The sedan pulls out of the parking lot a moment later, driving slowly past the clinic before disappearing down Main Street.
I wait until he's completely out of sight, then pull out my phone.
Zeke answers on the first ring. "Helena?"
"Someone just came by asking questions. Federal credentials, victim services division. Wanted information I wouldn't provide."
"What did you tell him?"
