live in these poor conditions, and read superhero comics?
Luke peered at the nearest picture. A very young Maggie was hugged by an older woman who bore a familial resemblance, with a large man holding them both. Her parents, no doubt. He glanced at the next photo. More of the same, this time they sat side-by-side under a Christmas tree, except the father was missing. Luke vaguely remembered reading in her file that her father had died when she was young. He quickly checked the background of the photo. Wherever it was, the picture wasn’t taken in this apartment.
“Luke, you might want to take a look in here,” Drew called from the bedroom.
Luke pulled himself away from the photos. He would have liked more time to go through the pictures that spanned the life of this woman who fascinated—and frustrated—him. She was supposed to be a ruthless spy, without conscience, but he couldn’t ignore the impression he’d formed of fragile steel. He could only sum it up as antagonistic attraction, and he didn’t normally think of the criminal in that way.
He stepped into the darkened bedroom and paused again. Like a blanketing cloud of despair, the smell of sickness was overwhelming. He recognized the scent, although someone had done their best to disguise it with air fresheners and perfume. It was the same smell that clung to a field hospital. The smell of impending death. A single bed took up the bulk of the narrow space, an empty commode by the side. The bedside table was crammed with packets of painkillers and measuring cups. An empty bucket stood by the bed, alongside an oxygen tank. He picked up a vial on the table and read the label. Liquid morphine.
Drew put down another prescription bottle, his face devoid of its usual humor. He looked at Luke.
“Someone’s dying.”
Chapter Six
Maggie used surgical tape to secure the cloth bandage she’d swiped from a tray in the emergency department and wrapped the bandage around her head with trembling fingers. Hiding behind a door, the sounds of the hospital beyond a constant threat of discovery, of capture, she checked her warped reflection in the brushed metal shelf of the supply closet. The bandage covered all of her hair and half of her face. She had purposely left the bruised side of her face exposed. She grimaced. She looked terrible. And she hurt. Despite Luke’s first aid, the area around her left cheekbone was turning a dark purple. She bit her lip. She didn’t have time to think about that man, or the touch of his fingers on her skin, or her reaction to it.
Angling her face for a better look, Maggie hoped the bruise would be enough of a distraction for most people not to look too closely at her features and possibly recognize her. The journey to the hospital had been fraught with the worry of exposure as she’d hailed a taxi and jumped without paying the fare about three blocks from the hospital. She shook her head. Never in a million years would she have thought she was capable of bailing on a cab fare. It was so wrong. But then, so is high treason and murder. Still, she’d made a note of the cab’s number so she could make restitution later. She wasn’t a thief. She pushed the image of Rupert and the knitting needle from her mind. A ride and run seemed paltry in comparison to murder.
She thrust her arms into a patient gown she’d grabbed from another shelf and fastened the ties loosely behind her. The supply room had been a lucky find, and she’d ducked inside to avoid a police officer patrolling the halls. Looking for her, no doubt. Her lips tightened. She was Public Enemy Number One, from the look of the news report she’d seen. This was all one massive, horrendous mistake, and normally she’d walk right into a police station and clear it all up, but from what she’d seen so far she didn’t think proving her innocence would be quite that easy. But she had to do it—and fast. She needed to show her mother it was all a mistake.
A muscle tightened
Luke peered at the nearest picture. A very young Maggie was hugged by an older woman who bore a familial resemblance, with a large man holding them both. Her parents, no doubt. He glanced at the next photo. More of the same, this time they sat side-by-side under a Christmas tree, except the father was missing. Luke vaguely remembered reading in her file that her father had died when she was young. He quickly checked the background of the photo. Wherever it was, the picture wasn’t taken in this apartment.
“Luke, you might want to take a look in here,” Drew called from the bedroom.
Luke pulled himself away from the photos. He would have liked more time to go through the pictures that spanned the life of this woman who fascinated—and frustrated—him. She was supposed to be a ruthless spy, without conscience, but he couldn’t ignore the impression he’d formed of fragile steel. He could only sum it up as antagonistic attraction, and he didn’t normally think of the criminal in that way.
He stepped into the darkened bedroom and paused again. Like a blanketing cloud of despair, the smell of sickness was overwhelming. He recognized the scent, although someone had done their best to disguise it with air fresheners and perfume. It was the same smell that clung to a field hospital. The smell of impending death. A single bed took up the bulk of the narrow space, an empty commode by the side. The bedside table was crammed with packets of painkillers and measuring cups. An empty bucket stood by the bed, alongside an oxygen tank. He picked up a vial on the table and read the label. Liquid morphine.
Drew put down another prescription bottle, his face devoid of its usual humor. He looked at Luke.
“Someone’s dying.”
Chapter Six
Maggie used surgical tape to secure the cloth bandage she’d swiped from a tray in the emergency department and wrapped the bandage around her head with trembling fingers. Hiding behind a door, the sounds of the hospital beyond a constant threat of discovery, of capture, she checked her warped reflection in the brushed metal shelf of the supply closet. The bandage covered all of her hair and half of her face. She had purposely left the bruised side of her face exposed. She grimaced. She looked terrible. And she hurt. Despite Luke’s first aid, the area around her left cheekbone was turning a dark purple. She bit her lip. She didn’t have time to think about that man, or the touch of his fingers on her skin, or her reaction to it.
Angling her face for a better look, Maggie hoped the bruise would be enough of a distraction for most people not to look too closely at her features and possibly recognize her. The journey to the hospital had been fraught with the worry of exposure as she’d hailed a taxi and jumped without paying the fare about three blocks from the hospital. She shook her head. Never in a million years would she have thought she was capable of bailing on a cab fare. It was so wrong. But then, so is high treason and murder. Still, she’d made a note of the cab’s number so she could make restitution later. She wasn’t a thief. She pushed the image of Rupert and the knitting needle from her mind. A ride and run seemed paltry in comparison to murder.
She thrust her arms into a patient gown she’d grabbed from another shelf and fastened the ties loosely behind her. The supply room had been a lucky find, and she’d ducked inside to avoid a police officer patrolling the halls. Looking for her, no doubt. Her lips tightened. She was Public Enemy Number One, from the look of the news report she’d seen. This was all one massive, horrendous mistake, and normally she’d walk right into a police station and clear it all up, but from what she’d seen so far she didn’t think proving her innocence would be quite that easy. But she had to do it—and fast. She needed to show her mother it was all a mistake.
A muscle tightened
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