Page 75 of Deadly Force

Moreno, Eliza.

The file is thin. Three pages, tops. But one line jumps out like it's highlighted in red, searing itself into my retinas:

"Security issue."

Security issue? What kind? The got-caught-stealing-files kind?

I snap a photo with shaking fingers, the camera's artificial shutter sound obscenely loud in the silence.

I lift the second page, squinting at the rushed, uneven handwriting—notes scribbled like someone was racing a clock—when a voice cuts through the silence.

"Who are you?"

The drawer is still open. The evidence of my violation hanging between us like an accusation.

My body locks in place, every muscle going rigid as my nervous system floods with adrenaline.

A woman stands in the doorway—mid-fifties, maybe older. Her posture is military-sharp, shoulders back, chin up, like she's spent years perfecting the art of command. Scrubs pristine and pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Blonde hair pulled back into a clinical braid, not a strand out of place.

The name tag on her chest reads Clara Bell.

Wife of Travis Bell. Lead RN.

"Close that drawer," she says, voice calm. Almost kind. The tone a mother might use with a misbehaving child.

My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear over the roar of blood in my ears.

But I don’t move.

Not yet.

Clara steps farther into the room, her movements deliberate and controlled. She lets the door swing shut behind her with a soft click that sounds like a cell door closing. The acoustics change immediately. We're sealed in now, cut off from the hallway, from help, from witnesses.

Her tone stays gentle, conversational. "You're not a patient. That much is clear."

I blank. Completely and utterly blank.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," she continues, taking another measured step forward, closing the distance by half, "but you're in violationof multiple privacy statutes. HIPAA violations alone could put you away for years." She pauses, tilting her head slightly like she's studying a particularly interesting specimen. "What happens next depends on your cooperation."

“Uh… look, I can explain.”

“Oh, I bet you can,” she spits. “What group are you with?”

Group?

She takes a step forward, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume, something clinical and cold, like antiseptic mixed with flowers.

And just like that, my cover is gone.

I'm not Amanda Keller anymore.

I'm exposed.

I'm trapped.

And Clara Bell is between me and the only way out.

Caleb