Oksana Federova. Sutures needed checking after one week. Failed to attend for follow-up.
Irina Smirnova. Follow-up for possible UTI. No return for follow-up. Outcome unknown.
The cursor blinked against the dim screen.
Maria Kuznetsova. Second-degree burns across both hands.
Harper remembered how carefully Maria had cradled a glass of water during the examination.
Did not return for follow-up.
Harper picked up her desk phone, punched in the number for Vostok Hospitality listed on the file.
It rang twice. “Da?”
“This is Dr. Fox from the IHO clinic. I’m calling about Oksana Federova. She missed her follow-up appointment?—”
“She doesn’t work here anymore.”
“When did she leave? I need to ensure proper medical?—”
“She found other employment.” The line went dead.
Harper set the phone down. The walls of her office, papered with fading cabbage roses, closed in around her. The space heater clicked, struggling against the icy air seeping through the single-pane window.
These weren’t accidents or unlucky women with bad employers. It was a system, and the clinic was part of it. Her clinic. Her hands had cleaned the cuts, wrapped the burns, and signed the discharge notes. She’d patched them up, made them presentable, and sent them back.
Nine months.
She’d been doing this for nine months while everyone around her looked away. Harper shut down the clinic desktop and stood. She needed fresh air.
And a plan.
Because the men in the van were going to come back.
2
Harper’stiny apartment was three blocks away, a second-floor walk-up above a shop that sold engine parts. Harper walked fast, her breath clouding in front of her face. The streets were nearly empty, with just a few people hurrying home before full darkness.
She took the stairs two at a time, fingers fumbling with her keys. When she got the door open, she locked it behind her and engaged the deadbolt she’d installed her first week when the landlord had laughed at her request for better security.
The apartment was frigid. She flipped the heating on, listened to the ancient radiator clank and hiss.
Her laptop sat beside the remains of last night’s dinner—instant noodles gone cold in their paper tub, chopsticks balanced across the rim as if she’d only stepped away for a minute.
Harper swept the tub aside, opened the laptop, and waited for it to boot up. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her knees, took a breath. They knew where she worked. They’d just threatened her.
A sound outside.
Engines.
Harper crossed to the window, pulled aside the thin curtain. Two SUVs idled on the street below.
Her stomach gave a sick turn. She lunged for the keyboard. The screen lit her skin ghost-pale as she typed.
From: Harper Fox
