Page 55 of Obeying

I look up. She's watching me. Scared, but thinking clearly. That's Kristen. Even now, even with surveillance photos on my desk, her brain is already working.

She's right. She's being smart. Strategic. Exactly what I'd expect from her.

I'm the one who can't think straight. I've operated on patients with bullets in their chest and kept my hands steady. Right now, I can't keep my hands still. I look back down at the photos and see them the way a board committee would see them. Two people standing too close. A man reaching for a woman's face. Evidence of exactly what Miguel wants it to be.

"Logan?"

I look up again.

"Are you listening?"

"Didn't you say he doesn't know where you live?"

She nods.

"So how did he get these photos?"

She's quiet for a second. "I don't know. Maybe someone followed me. Honestly, I'm not that surprised. He used to figure things out about me before I even told him. Where I'd been, who I talked to. It was like he had eyes everywhere." She says it matter-of-factly, the way you talk about something you've accepted as normal, and it guts me. She's not even shocked. She expected this.

I take my glasses off and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose.

"We need to talk about what this means for the complaint," Kristen repeats.

We go through the options, and she takes the photos back. She's going to document everything: dates, the envelope, how it was delivered, and who handed it to her.

She checks her watch and winces. "I'm supposed to be scrubbing in with Dr. Vance in ten minutes. I need to go." She picks up the envelope and tucks it into her bag. "I'll keep these safe. We'll figure out the next steps later."

I nod. "Kristen. Be careful today. If anything feels off, text me."

"I will." She pauses at the door, looks back at me, then she's gone.

I sit there.

The anger doesn't go away. It deepens. Every minute I sit in this office is a minute where Miguel Cruz is out there somewhere. Watching her. Documenting her life. Building his case one photo at a time. Taking the best thing that's happened to either of us and turning it into a weapon.

I'm not a man who just sits and waits.

It takes me three phone calls to find him. The Maxwell name opens doors, it always has. Cruz Pharmaceuticals headquarters is thirty minutes from the hospital, and Miguel's schedule is available if you ask the right person the right way.

I drive there. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. Kristen would tell me I'm being reckless. My father would tell me I'm compromising the name. They'd both be right.

But I can't sit still when the woman I care about is being harassed.

The building is glass and steel. Corporate architecture designed to impress: all clean lines and polished floors and a lobby that's supposed to remind you how successful they are. I give my name to the receptionist and ask to see Miguel Cruz. She doesn't ask why before she makes the call. The name does its job.

Five minutes later, I'm being escorted to his office on the top floor.

He's sitting behind his desk when I walk in. The surprise flashes across his face, there and gone. He replaces it with a smile so polished it could be on a billboard. Practiced. Automatic. The same smile Kristen described to me.

"Dr. Maxwell." He extends his hand. "This is unexpected."

I don't take it.

He lets his hand drop, still smiling, then gestures to a chair. "Please. Sit."

"I'll stand."

"Suit yourself." He leans back in his chair. "So. What brings the head of trauma surgery to my office?"