edging the parking lot and smashed it into the left rear window. Glass cracked and gave, a white spiderweb fracture spreading from the point of impact. A horn blared. Blared. Again.
Carefully, Morgan replaced the rock in the stone border. Dusting his hands, he walked around the building and through the steel and glass doors.
A human stench compounded of age and disease, blood and antiseptic, rose from the carpet and slapped him like a rogue wave. He froze. He had not considered his quarry could be sick. The thought caused an unexpected quiver in his belly.
His gaze passed over the rows of chairs, an old man with wrinkled hands and thick spectacles, a young woman with a child on the floor and another in her lap.
His mouth compressed. He did not see her . The woman in the car. The one he was searching for.
He approached the counter, where a female in soft, pink, shapeless clothes with a soft, pink, shapeless face peered at a screen. “Pardon me.”
She glanced up, her eyes widening. Her color deepened. He stood patiently, well aware of his effect on her sex and willing to let it work for him.
“I, um. Can I help you?”
“Yes, I am looking for the owner of a dark blue vehicle parked behind this building.”
Her face creased. “A dark blue . . . The Honda? Why?”
“The window is broken,” he explained smoothly. “I noticed it as I walked by.”
“Oh, dear.” The faint suspicion vanished. Her frown cleared. “I’ll let Liz know.”
“Liz,” he repeated, not quite making it a question.
“Dr. Rodriguez.”
Not sick, Morgan thought. Muscles he was not aware of tensing suddenly relaxed. She was a doctor.
“ I start med school in the fall, ” he thought he heard or remembered. “ Part of the plan. ”
“I would like to tell her myself,” he said.
“We-ll, I don’t know . . .”
He held her gaze, granted her a smile. “Please.”
She looked away, flustered. “I’ll, um, see if she has a minute.”
Picking up a folder marked with brightly colored stickers—HOP, he read—she bustled past a bank of metal cabinets into the building’s bowels.
Silently, Morgan opened the door that led from the waiting room and followed her down the hall.
“Liz?” The woman in pink stood in a doorway at the end of the hall, her back blocking his view. “There’s a man here to see you.”
“He’ll have to make an appointment.” He recognized her voice. Strong and smooth, without a trace of the local accent. “Is that the Hopkins file?”
The woman in the doorway shifted to hand off the folder, and Morgan got a look past her into the room. Big desk, small chair, stacks and stacks of paper.
And her. Liz. Dr. Rodriguez.
She was sitting in a small, armless chair, her legs crossed, her hair caught up in a clip, her hands busy with the file. He thought her body deserved better than those straight, dull trousers, that loose white coat.
He knew her, though. His pulse quickened. He remembered.
Elizabeth.
No longer young, despite the slim shape of her and that shiny hair. Her eyes were still deep brown and intelligent, her face a smooth oval, her jaw slightly squared. But the creases in her neck and the lines at the corners of her eyes were a subtle reminder of time passed and years lived. Beneath a swipe of color, her lips were pale and firm.
He moved so she could see him, so she would be forced to acknowledge him. “Hello, Elizabeth.”
His sudden reappearance had an effect on her, too, if not the one he hoped for.
Her chin rose as she looked him over. She set the file on her knee, her movements sharp and compact. “What are you doing here?”
“There’s been an accident,” the woman in pink answered for him.
Elizabeth’s face drained of color. “Oh, God. Zack?”
Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, Morgan felt an unexpected pang of remorse. But his ruse had gotten him past her first line of defense. Any means was acceptable to the appropriate end.
“Zack is fine,” he said. He assumed.
Carefully, Morgan replaced the rock in the stone border. Dusting his hands, he walked around the building and through the steel and glass doors.
A human stench compounded of age and disease, blood and antiseptic, rose from the carpet and slapped him like a rogue wave. He froze. He had not considered his quarry could be sick. The thought caused an unexpected quiver in his belly.
His gaze passed over the rows of chairs, an old man with wrinkled hands and thick spectacles, a young woman with a child on the floor and another in her lap.
His mouth compressed. He did not see her . The woman in the car. The one he was searching for.
He approached the counter, where a female in soft, pink, shapeless clothes with a soft, pink, shapeless face peered at a screen. “Pardon me.”
She glanced up, her eyes widening. Her color deepened. He stood patiently, well aware of his effect on her sex and willing to let it work for him.
“I, um. Can I help you?”
“Yes, I am looking for the owner of a dark blue vehicle parked behind this building.”
Her face creased. “A dark blue . . . The Honda? Why?”
“The window is broken,” he explained smoothly. “I noticed it as I walked by.”
“Oh, dear.” The faint suspicion vanished. Her frown cleared. “I’ll let Liz know.”
“Liz,” he repeated, not quite making it a question.
“Dr. Rodriguez.”
Not sick, Morgan thought. Muscles he was not aware of tensing suddenly relaxed. She was a doctor.
“ I start med school in the fall, ” he thought he heard or remembered. “ Part of the plan. ”
“I would like to tell her myself,” he said.
“We-ll, I don’t know . . .”
He held her gaze, granted her a smile. “Please.”
She looked away, flustered. “I’ll, um, see if she has a minute.”
Picking up a folder marked with brightly colored stickers—HOP, he read—she bustled past a bank of metal cabinets into the building’s bowels.
Silently, Morgan opened the door that led from the waiting room and followed her down the hall.
“Liz?” The woman in pink stood in a doorway at the end of the hall, her back blocking his view. “There’s a man here to see you.”
“He’ll have to make an appointment.” He recognized her voice. Strong and smooth, without a trace of the local accent. “Is that the Hopkins file?”
The woman in the doorway shifted to hand off the folder, and Morgan got a look past her into the room. Big desk, small chair, stacks and stacks of paper.
And her. Liz. Dr. Rodriguez.
She was sitting in a small, armless chair, her legs crossed, her hair caught up in a clip, her hands busy with the file. He thought her body deserved better than those straight, dull trousers, that loose white coat.
He knew her, though. His pulse quickened. He remembered.
Elizabeth.
No longer young, despite the slim shape of her and that shiny hair. Her eyes were still deep brown and intelligent, her face a smooth oval, her jaw slightly squared. But the creases in her neck and the lines at the corners of her eyes were a subtle reminder of time passed and years lived. Beneath a swipe of color, her lips were pale and firm.
He moved so she could see him, so she would be forced to acknowledge him. “Hello, Elizabeth.”
His sudden reappearance had an effect on her, too, if not the one he hoped for.
Her chin rose as she looked him over. She set the file on her knee, her movements sharp and compact. “What are you doing here?”
“There’s been an accident,” the woman in pink answered for him.
Elizabeth’s face drained of color. “Oh, God. Zack?”
Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, Morgan felt an unexpected pang of remorse. But his ruse had gotten him past her first line of defense. Any means was acceptable to the appropriate end.
“Zack is fine,” he said. He assumed.
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