"I'm sure." I print the prescription, hand it to her. "Make sure he finishes the full course even after he feels better."
She takes the paper but doesn't leave. Studies my face. "You okay, Doc? You seem... distracted."
I force a smile. "Just a long day. But your son's going to be fine."
After they leave, I stand at the sink washing my hands and stare at my reflection in the small mirror above the basin. Distracted. She's not wrong. My mind keeps jumping ahead to this afternoon. To Traci sitting across from me in the exam room. To the question I need to ask and the answer that could change everything.
Normal medicine feels surreal when I know what's coming.
Just before three, Eli's truck pulls into the back lot.
I watch through the window as he scans the area before letting Traci out. Every movement is controlled, economical, nothing wasted. He's wearing tactical clothing that fits him well enough to show the lean muscle beneath—former Delta Force operatives don't lose that build even after years in the wilderness. The way he positions himself between Traci and potential threats is automatic. Protective without being overbearing.
He checks the roofline of the building across the street. Tracks a vehicle passing on the road. Notes the angle of shadows and sight lines. All of it happens in seconds, so practiced it's nearly invisible unless you know what to look for.
I know what to look for. I've treated enough former military to recognize the signs. The hypervigilance. The tactical thinking that never quite shuts off. The way they map terrain and threats even when buying groceries or pumping gas.
But there's something different about watching Eli do it. Something that makes my pulse kick up in ways that have nothing to do with professional interest—annoying, inconvenient, and completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
Traci emerges wearing the same oversized sweatshirt, backpack slung over one shoulder. Her movements are smoother than during previous visits, less mechanical. It's small progress, but progress nonetheless.
I meet them at the door.
"Thanks for coming in," I say. I need to keep it normal, keep it routine.
In the exam room, I go through the standard checks. Blood pressure normal. Heart rate elevated but within expected range for someone with PTSD. Bruising almost completely faded.Defensive wounds on her forearms healing completely with no signs of infection.
I note the way Traci holds herself. Shoulders slightly hunched. Weight balanced on the balls of her feet even while sitting. Ready to move. Ready to run. Her eyes track my every movement, cataloging potential threats in the way trauma survivors do when their nervous systems never quite believe they're safe.
"You're doing well," I tell her. "Physically, everything's on track."
Traci nods once. Watches me with those careful eyes that miss nothing.
I set down the stethoscope and pull up a chair, sit so we're at eye level. My heart's hammering but I keep my expression calm, my movements slow and deliberate. This moment could go very wrong very fast if I push too hard.
"Traci, I need to ask you something important. It's not comfortable, and you don't have to answer if you're not ready." I pause, let her process. "Did you see something when they held you? Something that made you different from the other victims?"
Her whole body goes rigid. The change is immediate and visceral—muscles locking, breathing going shallow, pupils dilating. Classic fear response. For a second I think I've pushed too hard, that she's going to shut down completely.
Then she grabs her notebook with shaking hands, writes something.
She shows me the page.
Someone who came to inspect. I heard them call him the Marshal
The Marshal. The ghost they've been hunting for years. The leadership figure who built the trafficking network andstayed hidden behind layers of shell companies and expendable operatives.
My hands go numb. Everything I know about the federal investigation, about Rhys's work with the task force, about the cases that have dragged on for years without ever touching the person at the top—it all centers on this name. The Marshal. And Traci saw him.
"You saw him?" I keep my voice steady and quiet even though my heart's racing. "You can identify him?"
She nods. Writes again.
He came to inspect three times. Talked to the people running the house. I wasn't supposed to see but I did.
Three times. Not a glimpse. Not a quick sighting she could doubt or misremember. Three separate occasions where she got a good look at the man running the entire operation. The man who's managed to stay invisible to law enforcement for years while building a network that spans from Seattle to Alaska.
This changes everything. This is why they sent Gary Kern. Why they're willing to expose a professional contractor in broad daylight. Why they're hunting her with a level of aggression that goes beyond eliminating a witness. She's not just someone who escaped. She's the only person who can put a face to the ghost at the center of the operation.
