"Nothing. Standard HIPAA response. Couldn't confirm or deny anything."
"Good. Description?"
I give it to him. Mid-forties, average height, brown hair, forgettable features. The kind of man who's deliberately cultivated blandness. "Business casual, trying to look relaxed but moving wrong for a civilian. There was someone waiting in a rental sedan. Dark blue or black. I couldn't get the plate number."
"Credentials looked legitimate?"
"At first glance, yes. But the whole interaction felt wrong. Too smooth. Too rehearsed. And he scanned the clinic like he was doing reconnaissance, not conducting official business."
Zeke's quiet for a moment. I can hear him processing, running through protocols. "You still at the clinic?"
"Yes."
"Lock the doors. I'm sending Nate Barrett over. He'll stay with you until we sort this out."
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can. But I'm not taking chances. If that was reconnaissance, they might come back." His tone shifts to command mode. "Lock the doors, Helena. Now."
I move to the front entrance and engage the deadbolt. "Done."
"Good. Nate's on his way. I'm calling Miller to verify whether victim services is actually doing wellness checks. If they're not, we've got a problem."
"And if they are?"
"Then I want to know why nobody coordinated with local law enforcement first." He pauses. "You did the right thing. Don't give them anything."
"I didn't."
"I'm texting Eli to put him on alert. Stay inside until Nate arrives."
He hangs up. I move away from the windows, pull out a notepad, and start writing down everything I can remember. Physical details, mannerisms, the way he scanned the clinic. The sedan—dark color, rental plates, someone waiting inside with the engine running. The exact wording of his veiled threat about word getting around.
My hands are steadier than I expected. Years of dealing with medical issues and emergencies have trained me to function through adrenaline spikes, to keep working even when my nervous system is screaming. But now that the immediate threat has passed, I can feel the crash coming. The slight tremor starting in my fingers. The way my breath wants to come faster than necessary.
Every sound amplifies. A truck passes on Main Street and I tense, watching through the window until it continues pastwithout slowing. The wind rattles the clinic sign. A door slams somewhere down the block. Normal sounds that suddenly feel loaded with threat.
I move to the front window, standing back from the glass, scanning the street. No dark sedan. No men in business casual watching the clinic. Just Glacier Hollow on a gray November afternoon—a few pedestrians, someone loading groceries into their truck, and people going about their day.
Coffee from earlier sits cold in my mug on the desk. I dump it in the sink, rinse the cup automatically while my mind processes threat assessment.
The fake credentials bothered me most. Federal seal, official agency name, the kind of details that require resources to forge. This wasn't some amateur operation. Whoever sent him had the infrastructure to create convincing cover stories and the intelligence to know where to look.
Which means they've been watching. Tracking. Waiting for the right moment.
A truck pulls into the parking lot and I recognize Nate Barrett's vehicle before he's even out of the cab.
My phone buzzes with incoming messages. First from Rhys:
Got Zeke's alert. Running the vehicle description through rental databases. Will coordinate with my contacts in the task force.
Then from Eli:
Understood. Cabin secured. Will maintain vigilance.
Nate climbs out, moves to the clinic door with the efficient purpose of someone who's done this before. Federal wildlife enforcement. I unlock the door and let him in.
"Zeke sent you," I say.
