“We couldn’t prove the conspiracy,” Ortiz said. “Not yet. Then yesterday, a witness disappeared in Kansas City. Today your daughter ends up in the ER with a message carved into her back.”
She didn’t need to say the rest.
This was bigger than domestic violence.
Daniel arrived just before midnight. He rushed into the hallway, tie loosened, face pale, eyes red. The act would have convinced anyone.
Maybe once it would have convinced me.
“Richard—where is she?”
Ortiz stepped in front of him. “Daniel Miller?”
He flinched at the badge, but only for a split second. Then the grief returned—controlled, measured.
“She’s my wife,” he said. “What happened?”
I pulled the strip of cloth from my pocket and held it up.
His gaze dropped to the initials.
And that was the first crack.
His face didn’t show guilt.
It showed recognition.
Then fear.
“That’s not mine,” he said too quickly.
“It was in her hand.”
He swallowed. “Then someone wants it to look like me.”
Ortiz watched him silently. “Where were you between eight and ten tonight?”
“At home. Then driving around looking for Emily.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
At that exact moment, Alan’s pager buzzed. He glanced down, frowned, and muttered, “That’s odd.”
“What?” I asked.
“Emily’s CT just uploaded.” He looked at me, unsettled. “Richard, come with me.”
We stepped into the radiology room. Her spinal images glowed on the screen—sharp, ghostlike.
I had been a surgeon for thirty-six years. I knew the human body. I knew what belonged inside it.
This didn’t.
Something small and metallic was lodged beneath the skin near her left scapula, invisible from the outside. Not a bullet. Not surgical hardware.
Alan zoomed in.
It was a capsule.
A tracking implant.
And before either of us could speak, the power in the room went out.
Every screen went black.
A second later, the first scream echoed down the hall.
