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Typically, a woman’s beauty alone doesn’t have the power to impact me. It’s the full package—personality combined with appearance—that catches my attention. In Brooklyn Foster’s case, though, there’s something in her eyes, a depth uncommon in someone so young, that captures my interest.
I glance at the infants in her arms. They’re still very small, clearly twins.
I tap my favorite pen against my desk.
What would drive someone to target a young family?
Was it truly a home invasion gone wrong? Or is there more to it—perhaps enemies of the partner?
In that case, wouldn’t it have been enough to eliminate him? Why target her as well?
To leave no witnesses, probably.
So why haven’t they finished the job while she’s in the hospital?
According to the article, one of the intruders was killed and the others were arrested days later. Career criminals, apparently, which also doesn’t add up.
Someone who makes a living robbing houses doesn’t escalate to murder. The penalty difference between robbery and homicide is significant: in the first case, a few years off the streets; in the second, a lifetime behind bars.
Who are you, Brooklyn Foster? Or better yet, what have you gotten yourself into?
The door to my private office inside the hospital opens, and one of my two partners, William Randolph Marshall IV, the leading specialist in regenerative surgery for burn victims, steps in. “Still here?” he asks, pulling up a chair in front of my desk.
“I was about to leave, but I just got a call from Hades Kostanidis. He wants me to take on a coma patient.”
He furrows his brow. “A Kostanidis asking for a favor?”
“That’s what I thought, but it seems the girl is connected to the family.”
“Are you going to take it?”
I shrug. “The doctors currently treating her doubt she’ll recover.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “And you’re going to try everything you can to prove them wrong.”
“I’m not going to try. Iwillprove them wrong,” I say, standing up and leaving the room.
Athanasios
CHAPTER TWO
The next day
"Areyou telling me the gunshot she received wasn’t to the upper part of her body?"
The man clears his throat, and if I had to guess, I’d say he’s trying hard not to squirm in his seat.
I know why. He would have had to have lived his entire life on Mars not to know who I am.
"That’s correct, Dr. Pappakouris."
I could tell him to call me by my first name, but I don’t like unnecessary familiarity with strangers, even if they’re colleagues.
I can sense the anxiety radiating from the head of the team handling Brooklyn’s case, and I know the reason. He’s young, probably still early in his career, and he’s afraid of saying something stupid that will make him look incompetent in front of me.
"What do you think happened?" I ask.
"Well, the only person who could give us a definitive answer would be the patient herself. But according to the police, Miss Foster and her partner were asleep when someone broke into their home. It seems he tried to protect her, stepping into the line of fire, and the bullet hit him square in the chest—near the heart, to be precise."