“Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

“That’s impatience, what you’re feeling.”

She had to admit, he had a point. She felt like she was trapped in limbo. She wasn’t used to inertia. When she experienced it, she found a way to break it.

“I’m going to talk to Frank.”

“No,” Roland said, drawing out the word, “you’re going to keep doing what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything. My job title is ‘senior administrator of hospital personnel,’ which is a long-winded way of saying ‘babysitter.’ I’m watching a staff of four ridiculously good-looking young men and women stand there looking sharp and pretty while answering the phones, confirming appointments, and making sure they smile and act polite while talking to clients and delivering them herbal teas, kombucha, and bottled mineral water from some volcanic spring on the other side of the planet. My main job, though, is to make sure they don’t bring their phones into the Center.”

“Frank say why?”

“To protect the privacy of his patients,” Ellie replied. “Each morning, he has me frisk the front desk staff and search every purse. I’ve got to wave a wand over them, see if they have any, you know, bugs or listening devices. We’ve got a lot of famous people coming in there for skin treatments, other shit, and he doesn’t want anyone selling anything to the tabloids.”

“Sounds reasonable. And it sounds like they’re doing actual medical work there.”

“As far as I can tell, they are.”

“What an excellent cover,” Roland said, more to himself than to her.

“I haven’t talked to Frank since I first started working there.”

“You’re overthinking this. Just give it some time.” Roland checked his watch. “I’ve got to get to work on getting Faye Simpson a boyfriend.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you have an ungodly amount of people following you, and I need to find an easier way to deliver messages. Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll be in touch.” Roland stood and left.

Ellie stayed the course. She was no closer to finding out anything about Frank’s blood business—or the fate of her brother.

* * *

Her boyfriend’s name was Max Evans. She didn’t know his real one, just knew he was a Fed around her age and, for the time being, worked as a physical trainer at a swanky fitness club called Imperial, a place where the staff catered to every client’s need, including wiping away their sweat with the finest Egyptian cotton towels imported all the way from France. He lived with his single mother, also a Fed, in a modest suburban home in Glendale.

Max delivered her information from Roland. Sometimes, when Max was hugging her, he’d whisper quick instructions in her ear. Mostly, Max, like her gambling sponsor, Jon Carlo, who she also met with on a weekly basis, would slip her instructions written on scraps of paper. Paper was old-school but safe in this world where everything except your inner thoughts could be captured by technology. Paper could be burned or flushed down the toilet, even swallowed.