Chapter 2 - The Gun He Brought Back
At 1:06 a.m., Chicago police arrived at Mercy Street Clinic.
Damen did not send his men inside first.
Selene noticed that too.
She noticed everything about him because she did not want to trust him, and trust was easiest to resist when you kept a list.
He had contacted an attorney before touching the clinic server.
He had called police when the camera showed Preston entering with a gun.
He had not ordered anyone to drag Preston into an alley.
These were low standards.
They still mattered.
Preston was gone by the time officers entered.
He had left the side door damaged, Selene’s office drawers open, and a smear of blood on the file cabinet where he apparently cut his hand.
The red folder was gone.
So was Selene’s backup drive.
That frightened her more.
The clinic server was encrypted and stored off-site, but the backup drive contained export copies of old billing records, grant documents, and scanned lease agreements.
“Any patient data?” the detective asked.
“Some administrative records. Nothing complete enough to reconstruct full charts without the server.”
“Names?”
“Some.”
“Could anyone be endangered?”
Selene thought of patients who paid cash because they did not want spouses, employers, or immigration paperwork finding them.
“Yes.”
The word tasted like failure.
Damen stood ten feet away while she gave her statement.
He did not interrupt.
Ivy remained at the penthouse with a female security specialist named Nadia and a trauma nurse Damen had somehow found at one in the morning.
Selene had resisted leaving her.
Ivy had insisted.
“Go save your clinic,” she said. “I’m staying behind three locks and a woman who scares me more than Preston.”
Nadia had smiled.
“I like her.”
At 2:40, Selene finally entered her office after police cleared it.
The place looked violated.
Not destroyed.
That would have been easier.
Drawers open.
Papers shifted.
A photograph of her father facedown on the floor.
Her cheap ceramic mug cracked beneath the desk.
She crouched and picked up the frame.
Damen appeared at the doorway.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“He looks kind.”
“He burned eggs.”
Damen’s brow moved slightly.
Selene regretted the sentence instantly.
Too personal.
Then she remembered he had told her about his sister freezing to death.
Maybe they were even.
She set the photograph upright.
“What exactly do you know about North Lake?”
Damen leaned against the doorframe.
“Not enough.”
“Try.”
“It began as a legitimate fund. Small grants. Street clinics. Food programs. Housing assistance.”
“Then?”
“Viktor Sokolov bought influence inside the foundation through a board member.”
“Who?”
“Still checking.”
“Preston?”
“Maybe. He is not high enough to control it alone.”
Selene looked around the office.
“I accepted fifty thousand dollars.”
“For medical care.”
“If the money came from trafficking—”
“You did not know.”
“You don’t know that a regulator will care.”
“No.”
That honesty helped more than reassurance would have.
Selene opened the bottom drawer of her desk.
Empty.
She froze.
“What?” Damen asked.
“My lease.”
“What about it?”
“I keep the original landlord addendum here.”
“Gone?”
“Yes.”
“What building company?”
“Mercy Street Holdings.”
Damen took out his phone.
“Spell it.”
She did.
He sent a message.
Two minutes later, his jaw tightened.
“What?”
“Mercy Street Holdings is owned by a shell company.”
“Who owns the shell?”
“Another shell.”
“Helpful.”
“Final registered manager is a lawyer named Peter Holloway.”
Selene stared.
“Holloway.”
“Preston’s older brother.”
The room went silent.
Selene sat down hard.
Her clinic lease.
Her grant.
Her donor intermediary.
All tied to the Holloway family.
“How long?” she whispered.
Damen watched her.
“How long what?”
“How long have I been practicing inside their money?”
Neither of them knew.
That was the first honest terror of the night.
At 3:11, Selene’s receptionist Maria called.
She was crying before Selene answered.
“Doctor, I’m sorry.”
Selene stood.
“Maria? Where are you?”
“At my sister’s.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
A broken breath.
“I gave him your schedule.”
Selene closed her eyes.
“Who?”
“Mr. Holloway.”
Damen’s expression changed.
Selene put the call on speaker.
“Why?”
“He came in two months ago. Said he represented the property owner and needed emergency contact information. Then he started asking when you stayed late.”
“Maria.”
“I thought it was building security. He had documents. He knew the landlord.”
“Did you give patient information?”
“No. Never. Only your closing schedule.”
Selene exhaled.
“Anything else?”
Silence.
“Maria.”
“He asked about Ivy tonight.”
Selene’s stomach tightened.
“What did you tell him?”
“That she came in. I didn’t know why. I had already left.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Maria’s voice dropped.
“Because after I hung up, he sent me a picture of my son leaving school.”
Selene went cold.
Damen straightened.
Maria continued.
“He said if anyone asked, I was supposed to say you invented Ivy’s injuries because you wanted money from the Holloways.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing and listen. Do not go home. Do not meet anyone. Save every message. We’re getting you an attorney and police contact.”
Damen was already texting.
Maria whispered, “Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“There’s something else.”
Selene’s pulse climbed.
“Tonight, before Ivy came in, a courier dropped off a package for you.”
“What package?”
“I put it in the locked cabinet because you were with a patient.”
Selene turned toward the cabinet.
Its door hung open.
Empty.
“What was on it?”
Maria swallowed.
“Your father’s name.”
Selene stopped breathing.
“My father has been dead twenty-three years.”
“I know.”
Damen looked at her.
May you like
Maria’s next words barely came out.
“The return address was the hospital where he died.”
