“I’m afraid it’s up to the hospital. She’s committed a crime, so, yes, I believe they’ll press charges. It’s such a shame. Her whole career gone down the toilet, just for a few silly pills.”

She tutted, throwing her gray ponytail over one shoulder. I wanted to punch her in the face. I’d never punched anyone before, but the urge was so strong it actually made my knuckles itch.

She tilted her head at me, lips parting. She wanted me to agree with her. I blinked at her slowly, then turned and left.

Addiction wasn’t silly. Marjorie didn’t have any clue how an addict’s brain structure changed over time, how serotonin levels became warped and the brain rewired to say it needed more. All these people—medical administrators, government officials, politicians, people who didn’t have a clue—discussed addiction and prescription fraud and setting up task forces to stop drugs, but what we really needed was a way for our many addicts to get treatment. They needed help, not criticism and ridicule.

Out in the hall, I checked my phone. Gabe had texted.

It’s done.

I exited the back of the hospital near the ER and headed for the front.

“Sir! Sir!” I rushed up to a security guard lounging behind his desk. “Someone’s breaking into my boss’s car! Can you call her? Her extension is four-four-two-two.”

The security guard leaped up. He called Marjorie, then took his baton out and headed outside. I flattened myself into a quiet nook behind the stairs and watched. Within a few minutes, Marjorie emerged from the elevator. Once she was outside, I rode the elevator upstairs and hurried toward the clinic. I had my keys ready, but in her haste she hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.

The clinic was small, with two doors: one that patients entered and one they exited. Behind the reception desk was the medical records room, and through that was Marjorie’s office, which was connected to the exam rooms by a hallway. I moved quickly toward Marjorie’s office. I scanned the Post-its on her desk, little beads of sweat popping up on my forehead and above my lip, sliding into my mouth and tasting of fear. There was nothing useful, no log-in code or password.

My stomach plunged.

I ran my hand along the underside of the desk, my trembling fingertips snagging on a loose nail. Nothing. I flipped through the colossal stacks of paper and folders. My heart was booming, almost deafening in my ears.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered.

I rifled through her desk drawers. Phone charger, paper clips, pens, pencils, loose paper, more sticky notes, but not the one I needed. I checked the filing cabinet, looking for a video surveillance company. If only I knew the company’s name.

I glanced at the clock. Seven minutes had passed. How much time was left?