Page 10 of Vital Signs

I typed Dr. Elliot Wright's name into the search bar. His university profile appeared first: office in Putnam Hall, research focus on neuropharmacology, adjunct position at the uptown clinic. I frowned at the professional headshot. Just your average professor in his fifties, silver at his temples, wire-rimmed glasses, benevolent expression.

I started with his publications. He had dozens of articles in medical journals, most behind paywalls. I paid the exorbitant fees to access three of them, scanning for anything suspicious. Nothing unusual.

Dead end.

I tried social media next. A LinkedIn profile with glowing recommendations from colleagues. Twitter account that mostly retweeted university announcements and medical research. Facebook page locked down tight. Instagram didn't exist.

Another dead end.

Conference presentations then. I found videos of him speaking at medical symposiums, discussing ethical considerations in pharmaceutical trials, and advocating for better protections for vulnerable populations. The irony would have been funny if Tyler weren't dead.

I was missing something. The connection was here, buried somewhere.

I went back to the university website, this time looking at budget allocations, grant funding, and department expenditures. My eyes started to blur after pages of bureaucratic jargon and accounting codes.

Then I noticed something odd. A line item for "external research partnerships" that didn't specify the partner organization. Just a dollar amount: $2.3 million.

I clicked through to the full financial disclosure, three years old and buried six layers deep in the university's public records. There it was: Wright had received over $2 million in funding from Empirical Pharmaceuticals, a name I vaguely recognized but couldn't place.

I searched Empirical Pharmaceuticals, and my stomach dropped.

The results listed multiple FDA violations for inadequate safety protocols, warning letters from regulatory agencies, a settled lawsuit from last year after three deaths in a trial, details sealed by court order. Seemed they had a pattern of targeting economically disadvantaged populations for their recruitment, too.

But the connection to Wright wasn't direct. Empirical operated through a shell company called NeuraTech Innovations. I cross-referenced the addresses. NeuraTech shared a building with Wright's private practice.

"Gotcha," I whispered, saving everything before it could disappear.

A shift in the café's atmosphere drew my attention from the screen. I lifted my head to see Hunter at the counter. His dark hair, still damp from a shower, sent droplets down his neck where the dragon tattoo disappeared beneath his collar.

My mouth went dry.

I traced the breadth of his shoulders with my eyes, the way his shirt pulled across his back when he reached for his wallet. The defined curve of his ass in faded jeans. The strong arms that could easily…

I stopped that thought before it went somewhere unhelpful. I was here for Tyler. For justice. Not for me to fantasize about a man I barely knew.

But fuck, those hands. Large and capable even as they trembled counting out coins. Long fingers I'd watched curl into fists yesterday while he grieved. Hands that could wrap around my throat, pin my wrists, hold me down—

Focus, Misha.

Other patrons glanced over at Hunter, then quickly away. The easy morning chatter quieted, replaced by the sound of coins hitting the counter one by one.

He was two dollars short for whatever he'd ordered. The barista said something I couldn't hear. Hunter's shoulders stiffened. His hand moved to return the coins to his pocket.

I was on my feet before I could think better of it.

"I've got it," I said, approaching the counter. I placed a ten-dollar bill next to his coins.

His eyes met mine. A muscle in his jaw tightened. Up close, I could see the exhaustion in the dark circles beneath his eyes, smell the cheap soap from whatever shelter he'd showered at. And underneath, just him. Warm and male and entirely too appealing.

"Michael. What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Research," I said, nodding toward my laptop. "And apparently buying you coffee. Call me Misha, by the way. Not Michael."

"I don't need your charity," he said, voice low and rough.

I stepped closer, dropping my voice to match his. "It's not charity. It's an investment. Can't have my partner in crime-solving passing out from hunger."

Something flashed in his eyes at 'partner.' Heat, maybe. Or wariness.