“How’s María doing?” I ask, referring to said patient—the teenage mistress of a Mexican drug lord who’d given birth to twins yesterday. “Did she go home already?”
“She’s recovering nicely, but no.” Dr. Jart sighs. “Gomez wants her to stay here for at least a week, and since he’s paying…” He shrugs, walking back to his desk.
“I see.” Unlike a traditional hospital that relies on insurance payments and adheres to strict guidelines in regard to the length of stay, this clinic caters to the ultra-wealthy of the underworld, and it’s the patients—or whichever wealthy criminal the patients are affiliated with—who decide when they’re sufficiently healed.
“So, Dr. Sokolov…” The doctor sits down and regards me with piercing dark eyes. “The reason I asked you to come by is I wanted to discuss something with you.”
“Sure. What is it?” I ask, sitting down across from the doctor. I hope they have another patient for me to assist with while Peter is sleeping.
I need to stay busy to keep my mind off things.
“Would you consider joining us here?” Dr. Jart asks. “I don’t know what your plans are with Mr. Sokolov, given the”—he clears his throat—“circumstances, but we could really use a female doctor with your specialty on staff. As you know, our obstetrician—Dr. Ludwig—is excellent, but he’s a man, and some of our patients, especially those from more traditional cultures, are a bit… uncomfortable with that fact.”
“Oh.” I stare at the doctor. “Thank you. I… don’t know what to say.”
A job offer—especially one largely predicated on my gender—was definitely not what I expected. But then again, why should I be surprised? There’s no political correctness in this new, lawless world of mine, where violence is part of business and women are seen as extensions of the powerful men they belong to.
“I’m sure you’ll need to consult with Mr. Sokolov,” Dr. Jart says when I don’t say anything else. “If this is something that interests you, of course.”
“Right.” Suppressing my inner feminist, I focus on the actual opportunity—which does seem interesting. The loss of my career is something I’ve been avoiding thinking about as well, but I know I won’t be able to do that forever. This way, I could still be a doctor—assuming Peter’s okay with us staying nearby.
For all I know, he’s planning for us to hide out in Asia again.
“Just think about it for now,” Dr. Jart says. “You don’t have to give us an answer right away—or even anytime soon. We understand that the situation”—he clears his throat again—“is volatile at the moment, so take as long as you need to decide.”
“Thank you.” I get up and shake his hand. “I appreciate that.” I wonder how often he extends job offers to suspected terrorists who are on the run from the law. He doesn’t seem entirely comfortable with “the situation,” but he’s not deterred by it either.
Personnel files at this place must make for some interesting reading.
After the meeting, I stop by the café downstairs to grab a snack. By the time I return to Peter’s room, he’s awake and looking for me.
“Where were you?” he asks, pushing up to a sitting position—with noticeably less effort this time. His healing speed is remarkable—either that, or his pain tolerance is off the charts. He didn’t even wince, though the movement must’ve pulled at the stitches in his side.
I’m tempted to urge him to lie back down regardless, but I refrain. He seems much more alert now, his gray eyes sharply intent as he stares at me, and I know it won’t be long before he’s back to his usual self.
“I was talking to one of the doctors,” I tell him, walking over to perch on the edge of his bed. “He offered me a job.”
Peter’s eyebrows pull together. “Here? At this place?”
“Yes. Apparently, they need a woman obstetrician.” Picking up his hand, I rub my thumb over the calluses on his broad palm. “What do you think? We’d obviously have to stay in the area, and I don’t know how safe it is.”
No job is worth endangering our freedom.
Peter is silent for a moment, mulling it over. “It’s not the worst idea,” he finally says. “First, though, we need to figure out exactly how this happened.”
“You mean why they think you’re responsible for the bombing?”
He nods grimly, and I take a breath to combat the tightening in my chest. I’ve been pondering that myself, and if Peter is innocent—which I believe he is—there’s only one logical conclusion.
“Someone must’ve framed you,” I say. “Maybe even someone within the FBI.”
“Yes.” His expression doesn’t change. He must’ve already thought of this himself. “The question is who and why.” He reaches for his phone, like he did before, and I watch him scroll through his emails at a rapid clip.
“Maybe the Feds don’t have any real suspects, so they decided to use you as a scapegoat,” I suggest as he opens one email. “It was probably some terrorist organization behind the explosion, but they decided to pin it on you instead. Someone besides Ryson could’ve been upset with the deal you’d made, so when the opportunity arose—” I stop because Peter’s face turns into granite.