Rocco backhands me in the chest. His hit has moreoomphthan the playful ones he usually does. “Duh, fuckface. We’re needed to make a baby, but we are positivelynotrequired to get rid of one.” When confusion crosses his features, he nudges his head to the cracked canister in my hand. “That there is an abortion drug.” A mask slips over his face before he asks matter-of-factly, “Where did you get it?”
“Nowhere important,” I reply before I can stop myself, certain his interrogation will end a whole lot different than mine. “I was just curious as to how easy it is to get.”
Rocco shrugs. “I’m more a cover-it-up-and-hope-for-the-best type of guy.” He dumps my now empty gym bag into the passenger seat of the Buick before adding to the unease ridding the air of oxygen. “But if you know the right people, I don’t see it being hard to get. Especially out there.” He drops his eyes to the pharmacy name at the top of the label. “Shady shitalwayshappens near Mercer Private.”
“This script was issued by Mercer Private?”
He shakes his head. “But last check…” he doesn’t mention his last check was because of Demi. “… that doctor is the on-call OBGYN at Mercer Private.” He taps his index finger on a half legible name on the bottom of the prescription label. After waiting a beat, hopeful the delay will tap him into my inner-workings but leaving disappointed, Rocco says, “I’ll get this unloaded so you can be on your merry way. Even with your brotherfinallyshowing up, I bet you’re eager to get back to your girl. The first time you leave them alone is always the hardest.”
Although I work my jaw from side to side, pissed about his snooping ways, my focus remains on the pill canister. The compound I visited tonight was in the opposite direction of Mercer Private, so why the fuck would someone travel over a hundred miles to have a prescription filled there? The canister is cracked and filled with sand, but the date on the label exposes it was only filled a little over two months ago, so I’m hedging bets it was for one of the many women—sorry, let me correct that—girlsI saw tonight.
Too curious for my own good, I dig my cell phone out of my pocket before logging into the Safari app. The doctor’s surname is a standard, everyday name, but when paired with Mercer Private, it pops up in a google search remarkably quick.
Dr. Franklin’s credentials are listed as Rocco stated. He is the on-call OBGYN at Mercer Private, has a practice ten miles from the cabin Demi and I hid in for six weeks, and a yacht that looks way too fancy even if he were a world-renowned neurosurgeon.
After scrolling through hundreds of images of Dr. Franklin with a waif-thin blonde with big blue eyes, I add misoprostol into the search bar next to his name. I feel like I fall into a dark vortex when newspaper article after newspaper article pops up. They are all about a lawsuit Dr. Franklin faced after one of his patients died after taking an excessive amount of misoprostol. She bled out on the lower level of her family home. She was only nineteen.
The horrid memories rolling through my head like a movie are too perverse for me to ignore. Before I consider the consequences of my actions, I ask Rocco, “If I supply Smith a name, could he get me an address?” When Rocco nods, I ask, “Now?”
Twenty minutes later, I’m steering Rocco’s Buick in the direction opposite of the Walsh lakeside cabin. Even if my love of the gas pedal shaves minutes off my time, I’ll still cut it close to getting Demi to her shift on time. My curiosity hasn’t skewed my priorities. Demi willalwayshave the number one spot. I just have a feeling shelving my investigation will have a more detrimental effect to her well-being than missing a shift at Petretti’s.
Besides, I have Demi’s permission to look deeper into her miscarriage. Now is a prime time. Her uncle isn’t breathing down my neck, Caidyn finally rocked up after an extra-long shift at ‘work,’ and the sting of the stitches in my ass reminds me there’s no depth I won’t push past to protect Demi.
By the time I arrive at Dr. Franklin’s palatial home, the sun has set, and a baseball cap is covering a majority of my face. Dr. Franklin’s elaborate residence doesn’t fit in with the neighborhood. The suburbs surrounding Mercer Private are rundown and full of housing estates for the unemployed. His residence is three stories tall, boarded by a massive spiked fence, and there is more than one Doberman guarding acres of rolled turf.
I stop imagining how much damage four Dobermans could do to my ass when something unexpectedly taps on the tinted window next to my head. After collecting my heart from the floor and resting my chin onto my chest, I roll down my window. The security officer who startled me doesn’t have a visible gun, but I’m certain he’s carrying. He has the arrogance of a man gunned up and ready to kill.
After stuffing his baton back into a steel loop around his belt, he asks, “Reason for your visit?”
I’m not known for thinking on the spot, however, it’s a fight not to pat myself on the back when a brilliant idea smacks into me. “I’m here to collect a package for Nilon Enterprises.” That was the name of the company on the purchase order I filled this afternoon.
The guard’s brow quirks, advising he has heard the name before, but he plays it cool. “All collections are to be pre-arranged. Your name isn’t down.”
When he shoos me away with an arrogant wave of his hand, I get desperate. “Maestro organized it last minute with Dr. Franklin. It’s for an urgent matter.”
That gets his attention. “Maestro Sphitz?”
Certain I’m being tested, I reply, “If that’s the name he’s using this week, sure.”
The guard laughs, assuming I’m being witty.
I’m not. I just know when I am being played.
After hitting a button to drop down the steel bollard in front of me, the guard says, “I’ll ring ahead and let Dr. Franklin know you’re on your way.”
I swallow the brick his comment lodged into my throat before jerking up my chin. It gives him the opportunity to take in my lips and half my nose, but my eyes are still hidden.
Nerves take hold of my senses when I drive down the long gravel driveway. Mercifully, its length gives me time to settle the butterflies in my stomach, but it also means Dr. Franklin could reach Maestro to authenticate my ruse.
That will only end one way.
Badly.
A man matching the images I saw during my google search is standing on the front porch of his mega-mansion, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Confident I know the reason for his smile, I grab a bundle of the hundred-dollar bills Rocco hands me after every run before sliding out of my driver’s seat. My theory that Dr. Franklin is all about greenback is proven without a doubt when his eyes locking in on the bundle of cash in my hand sees me gifted an invitation into his private abode.
His lack of personal security makes sense when the familiar burn of monitored cameras hone in on me when I enter his house. They follow our track across the foyer before they endeavor to zoom in on my face when I shadow Dr. Franklin into an office across from a massive media room.
This house isn’t a mansion. It is a palace. The rooms are massive, the artwork is high-end however, it doesn’t have a homey feel to it. It’s cold and sterile, and I discover why that is when Dr. Franklin asks, “How far along is the patient?”
