The storm broke just before dawn. Gray light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest room.
Evie stood in front of the full-length mirror. Her clothes were stiff from drying overnight. She pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail.
She walked over to the mahogany desk. She picked up the monogrammed notepad and the heavy fountain pen. She wrote quickly, listing drug dosages, ventilation settings, and fluid management down to the milligram.
She tore the page off and placed it under the Hermès blanket that was still folded on the bed. She left the blanket. She left the expensive toiletries. She grabbed her canvas bag.
She opened the door a crack. The hallway was empty. She slipped out, moving silently. She hugged the wall, staying in the natural shadows cast by the architecture, her senses on high alert. She recalled the path they had taken last night, instinctively avoiding the angles where she'd glimpsed the subtle gleam of a camera lens. She reached the side door and bypassed the electronic lock with a hairpin. She was gone.
Two hours later, Hartwell woke up in the master suite. His head was pounding. He threw on a silk robe and walked straight to the guest room.
He didn't knock. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The bed was perfectly made. The room was empty. It was like she had never been there.
Hartwell's jaw clenched. He walked into the room and saw the notepad under the blanket. He read the precise, aggressive handwriting. He let out a cold chuckle. "Fast little cat."
Footsteps echoed behind him. Mr. Slate entered, holding a secure tablet. "Sir, the background check is complete."
Hartwell snatched the tablet. He swiped the screen. A photo appeared. A girl in a faded T-shirt, carrying a trash bag in a rundown trailer park.
He scrolled down. "Evie Vasquez. Eighteen. High school dropout. Current employment: janitor at a community clinic."
He kept scrolling. His thumb stopped. The medical record glared up at him. "Diagnosed: Severe PTSD. Committed to Ridgeview Psychiatric Facility five years ago."
The file detailed the abuse. The neglect. The father who dumped her. It painted a picture of a broken, disposable girl.
Hartwell stared at the screen. Then he thought of the hands that had sewn a beating heart back together. He threw the tablet onto the sofa. It bounced off the cushion.
"Bullshit," he snarled. "A mental patient doesn't do open-heart surgery in a bedroom."
Slate cleared his throat. "Sir, we checked the cameras. The real Surgeon was stranded at a gas station last night. He left New York."
Hartwell walked to the window. The sky was clear blue. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
"This file is a plant," Hartwell said. "It's too perfect. Too pathetic. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make her look like garbage." He turned around, his eyes burning with obsession. "Which means she's far more dangerous than The Surgeon."
"Replace this team of doctors," Hartwell said, his voice deep and heavy. "Have the new ones confirm her instructions are sound. If they are, follow them to the letter. And..." He paused, his gaze turning hard as steel. "Continue the search for her whereabouts."
Slate was startled for a moment. "Yes, Mr. Barron."
Hartwell straightened his robe. "Get the helicopter ready. We're going back to Manhattan. It's time to hunt."
