Chapter 8 · Needle and Thread

He didn't take his hand off the towel.

It was pressed flat against my bare hip, gray terrycloth soaking black at the edge. Underneath, my torn flank was doing what open wounds do. Steady, hot pulses. Ruining his imported slate tile one drop at a time.

The master bath smelled like steam, cedar, and copper. Heavy on the copper.

The door behind him was locked. I'd heard the deadbolt slide home the second he shoved me inside.

"Talk," Owen said.

"I'm currently bleeding out on your floor," I rasped. "That's the emergency. Everything else waits."

"No." He didn't raise his voice. Men who run harbor syndicates never do. "It doesn't. You showed up on my private dock with a suspended medical license and a hole in your ribs. Helen's downstairs screaming for your head. Talk."

I grabbed the dry corner of the towel and clamped down. Bad move. White static flared behind my eyes.

"Pier 4," I said, biting through the dizziness. "Free clinic. Two exam rooms, a busted autoclave, and an unlocked narcotics locker. My clinic director ran the locker. He also ran the books. When the DEA audit landed, my forged signature was on every single fentanyl script."