Page 10 of Martyr (Sterling Falls Rogues #3)

I didn’t need Reese to find Saint Hart.

I found him myself.

Dr. Hawthorne shadows me down the hallway toward my sister’s room. She is as put together as always, a steadfast presence that tracks my mannerisms with precision. She’s always left me a little unsettled—probably because she gives off the air of someone who can read others.

That would be the psychiatrist part of her, I imagine.

Still, some secrets of the mind are better left uncovered. Knowing she can probably guess at reasons behind actions only makes me want to behave irrationally. To throw her off.

It’s a bit ridiculous.

Anyway. Ouranos gave me leave to check on my sister, as I do every month. Gabriel came a few times, but we both noticed his behavior was worse upon returning.

Eventually, I stopped inviting him. The guy is unhinged as it is—no one wants to see him worse .

“How is she?”

Dr. Hawthorne clears her throat. “She’s the same.”

I pause long enough for her to catch up—the step-behind bullshit drives me nuts—and meet her gaze. “I know she’s the same. I get regular reports from her doctor. Tell me more.”

“A resident stole some things from her room, but they were recovered. She is regularly moved to prevent bed sores and put through physical therapy to keep her muscles from atrophying. Her feeding tube doesn’t seem to irritate her. Otherwise…”

I narrow my eyes.

“Some residents like to visit with her,” she admits.

“Why?”

She shrugs carefully. “I’ve heard they like talking to her. And, honestly, if they can open up somewhere , it’s encouraged.”

Anger sweeps through me at her carelessness. We’re outside her door, now, and I point to it. “You let strangers go into her room? Without supervision?”

Her mouth opens and closes.

She’s a psychiatrist, yes, but she also runs the facility. She knows the inner workings. It’s why she met me at the dock this morning herself instead of sending someone else. Because I pay an exorbitant amount of money to keep Lyssa safe.

Safe in a way I failed as a teenager.

“Well?” I demand. “How am I to ensure my sister’s protection if anyone can stroll into her room?”

Dr. Hawthorne nods. “You’re entirely right.”

Great.

I open the door, only pausing to glance back at her.

And that’s when I spot Saint Hart.

The back of him anyway. But who else has his hair, his stature, and his tattoos ? He wears a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, the former doing nothing to hide the artwork on his arms or neck. His hair is cut short in the back, a fade into a slightly longer top.

“Mr. Laurent?” Dr. Hawthorne murmurs.

I focus on her, then back to Saint—and he’s gone.

Damn it .

I shake my head and step into Lyssa’s room. The flowers on the tables have been changed recently, the water in the glass vases clear and fresh. And she lies in the center of her bed, her hair brushed, her skin clean.

My heart skips.

I go to her side and take her hand in mine. I run my thumb across her knuckles. There’s no change, no flicker of life in her expression—or in her hand. It’s cool and dry, just like every other time I’ve touched her.

And, just like every other time, my stomach knots.

I release her and turn away, satisfied that she hasn’t been left destitute—or, worse, that these other residents have been malicious. Outwardly.

“I want her skin inspected for bruises,” I say. “And her door should be locked.”

Dr. Hawthorne clears her throat. “Only a few of my staff hold keys. That in itself is a safety concern, and not just for Lyssa. For this entire facility. And if something were to happen?—”

A million scenarios flash through my head. A fire, and prone Lyssa trapped with no one there to help her escape. If she choked, if her heart stopped, if she somehow fell from bed or had a seizure…

I can’t compromise that aspect of Lyssa’s care.

I wave her off. “Fine. Let’s discuss other measures, then. In your office.”

I lean down and press a kiss to Lyssa’s forehead, then sweep past her, back into the hallway. I scan it for signs of Saint and continue to do so on the way to the doctor’s office. My gaze absorbs the lack of a computer on her desk. The discreet filing cabinet in the corner.

Paper filing system? I suppose that makes sense to prevent hackers… and they’re on an island. Who’s going to sneak onto the island to rifle through files in a locked office? The sheer number of obstacles in the way…

Plus, it forces would-be thieves to put themselves in physical danger, instead of hiring out to hackers.

It’s smart.

It puts a damper on my plans to get off this island then figure out how Saint ended up here, but alas. I have no doubt an opportunity will present itself at some point during my stay.

Gotta admit, I sort of pictured Saint and Artemis holed up somewhere, scheming…

But Isle of Paradise wasn’t on the radar.

Hmm.

“Mr. Laurent,” Dr. Hawthorne begins.

Almost immediately, her phone chimes twice. It’s followed by a low tone that echoes from the hallway.

She was halfway seated, but now she rises. “I’m so sorry. Can you excuse me for a moment?”

She’s out the door before I can muster a response. I wait a few seconds, then poke my head out the door.

The corridor is empty.

See? Opportunity.

I round her desk and test the cabinet drawers. Locked, as suspected. A quick perusal of her desk supplies me with the tools I need, and in under a minute, I’m into the top one.

Another minute, and I scowl. I do not understand her filing system. It wouldn’t be easy if it was just in alphabetical order by last name, but this seems to organize her patients—or, as she calls them, residents —by some sort of coding. That’s the part that doesn’t quite make sense yet.

I do enjoy a challenge.

My ears strain to catch any sound from beyond the office. It wouldn’t surprise me if the room was soundproofed. Behind me is a couch and chair, presumably for private sessions.

The thought of her poking around in my head is almost as bad as knowing she’s analyzing my body language and every facial expression. And my language.

I pull a file at random. It has a series of numbers on top, 26325, followed by a string of letters.

It doesn’t correlate to anything in the girl’s file. There’s not even a picture attached. Maybe that’s in a database somewhere, or?—

Who fucking knows.

I drop it back in. The pressure of time , of getting caught, beats down on me. I close and relock the drawer, returning her implements to their proper places, and sit back down.

Not a second later, the door opens.

It’s not Dr. Hawthorne, though.

It’s just the man I was hoping to find.

Without thinking, I smile.

Thank you, Opportunity.