I round the third-floor landing and keep moving. “Felix assigned you here to ensure the Agosti stuff doesn’t blow back on the Copeland Malones in his absence? Smart.” I shrug. “I guess.”
Second floor.
First.
It’s only…fuck, it’s only six-nineteen…but as I push past Steve’s door and the hug I wouldusuallystop for, then through the heavy glass door leading into the street, I walk face-first into a wall of heat. Humid, horrible, oppressive heat.
It’s already in the nineties. Easily.
“I officially loathe the summer.” I turn left and charge straight past Tim’s bar, my morning walk historically a nice chance to breathe fresh air and savor the crisp early morningbefore work. But not today. Not this month. “Was everything good at the house last night?” I don’t bother peeking over my shoulder, and I sure as shit don’t turn, allowing my followers a chance to see the desperation in my eyes. “Steve is well?”
“Mr. Morris is well,” Stovic answers, his shoulders broad and puffed, his gaze scanning the not-very-busy street. “He slept well, and his recovery is on track, according to Mary.”
“Excellent.”Was Archer there all night? Is he okay? Does he have a new, better wife yet?
I cross one block and move onto the next, but a few doors before the hospital, I cut left and stride into the twenty-four-hour pharmacy I scouted out on the second or third day after moving to this city.
When a woman depends on three-times-a-week medication to stay alive, she knows to line her supply chain up quickly.
Stalking to the very back of the long, rectangular store, I stop at the prescription counter and paste on a fake cheery smile. “I have a script waiting for me. My name is Minka Mayet.”
“Of course.” The clerk checks her computer, click, click, clicking until she finds my file. But then the easiness in her expression falls. Her brows pinch.Click. Click. Click.“Ah, I see Doctor Kurbonov has already called it in and explained…”Click. Click. Click.“Oh… hmm.”
“What?” My stomach flips with nerves, twisting as I lean onto the counter and attempt to peek at the screen. “What’s the problem? I know she’s out of state, but?—”
“There’s a note here, Ms. Mayet. We’re instructednotto run this script through insurance. Since you’ve already had this medication filled.”
“Yeah. It’s fine.” I straighten out and set my coffee down, rifling through my bag in search of my rarely used purse. The kind with cash and cards and whatever else I’ve hardly thought about in the last few months. “I expected I’d have to pay for this one myself.” Snagging my credit card, I present the plastic with a triumphant smile. “How much?”
“Uh…” The poor woman clears her throat, uncomfortable and grimacing. Instead of saying a number out loud, she nudges the computer screen around.
I scan the details with a fast sweep of my eyes, sliding my focus down to the bottom line… literally and metaphorically. And then I laugh. It’s a little unhinged. A little disbelieving. And dangerously too close to hysteria. “You’re shittin’ me, right?” I blink, blink, blink, like doing so will move the decimal point a little further to the left. “Forty-fivethousanddollars.” I slam my credit card onto the desk and guffaw. “Forty-fivethousand?!”
“Ms. Mayet?—”
“DoctorMayet,” I snarl, then I look again. Because maybe it says forty-five dollars. Or, worse case, four-hundred and fifty dollars. “You need to fill this script—” I scan the woman’s shirt and stop on her nametag— “Phyllis. And you need to charge it to this—” I slide my card across the desk— “Credit card.”
“I-I can try.” She picks up the plastic and swipes it through the card reader, her cheeks blazing and her fingers trembling. Then she waits… waits… waits for the inevitablebeeeeeepof rejection. “Ma’am. It declined.”
“Of course it declined! You typed forty-five and a few zeroes, but you forgot to use the decimal!”
“Chief Mayet.” Harrison clears his throat and steps forwardwith a different credit card. Then he meets Phyllis’ terrified expression. “Run it again, please.”
“Absolutely not!” I slap his hand away and glower at the poor woman who just wants to get on with her day. “Forty-five thousand dollars is insane! It costs, like… four dollars any other day.”
“W-with insurance. We can’t?—”
I snatch up my card and coffee and point a threatening finger at her face. It’s shameful. Violent.Too much.All the reasons I’m in this situation in the first friggin’ place. Exploding, “Gah!” I spin on my heels and leave the stupid deskwithoutmy Factor, then I barrel back the way I came, bursting onto the sidewalk and hastily scrubbing the itch from my eyes before Harrison and Stovic report this bullshit back to the Malones.
Which is literally their job.
Furious, I march past the hospital and keep on walking toward my office, my muscular shadows a mere six feet behind me.
“Don’t follow me.” I stomp along the hot concrete and cross to the revolving glass door preceding my building. Except the door isn’t revolving right now, because it’s—fuckkkkk me, six-twenty-seven—so I tap the window to alert my security guard, then I spin back to myothersecurity guards and lift my hand, palm pointing toward them. “Safe flight, Mr. Stovic. I hope your stay in Copeland has been enjoyable.” I meet Harrison’s neutral gaze. “I promise Estefan Cordoza is not inside the George Stanley. Nor are his men. You can go do…” I shrug. “Whatever it is you do on a regular Wednesday morning. Have you eaten yet?” I point across the street. “Diner over there does nice eggs.” With that parting thought, I rotate on my heels and stride through the now-revolving glass door.
Crossing from humidity and heat into the icy, dry air of what is effectively a giant refrigerator spanning fifteen floors, I meet the George Stanley security guard’s eyes andfake, fake, fakelike my life isn’t on fire. “You can disable the door again now, Jacob. Thank you. The last thing we want is walk-ins.”
“Yes, Chief.”
