Page 66 of Only the Hunter

Inside, it’s warm to the point of discomfort, leading us to both unzip our coats and remove scarves and gloves.

The interior is clean. Hospital-level clean. White walls, pale wood, minimal decoration. The smell of antiseptic layered over an herbal scent.

A light-haired woman meets us in the entryway—late forties, professional posture, eyes sharp but guarded. She speaks French, the words slower than the woman on the speaker, maybe because she sees Evie using her phone for translations.

Evie speaks, steady but clearly working for it.

I let Evie lead. But I take in everything—the way the woman positions herself slightly between us and the interior hall, the lack of visible patients, the absence of sound.

“This is a medical facility,” the woman says, in English now.

Heavily accented, but precise. I’m not sure why she switched, but I appreciate it.

“And a refuge. We protect privacy.”

“We’re looking for Lina Morozova,” Evie replies. “She was transferred here under NGO coordination.”

The woman doesn’t blink. No visible surprise, no flicker of recognition.

“That name is not familiar,” she says.

I’m not sure if I believe her. Regardless, denials are data.

Evie presses. Shows the photo. Gives dates. Mentions the expedited transfer.

Something flickers. Not recognition—I’d bet money on it. Calculation.

The woman’s gaze shifts, briefly, to the hall behind her.

“You cannot be here without authorization,” she says. “If there is concern, it must go through proper channels.”

“Which channels?” Evie asks.

The woman’s mouth tightens, little lines appearing above and below her lips. “Swiss counsel. Or the originating authority.”

Same script. Different altitude.

Evie thanks her.

We turn to leave.

That’s when I catch movement at the end of the corridor—a figure passing behind frosted glass. With a backward glance at us.

“Was she injured?” I ask.

The woman stiffens. “Excusez-moi?”

“The transfer,” I continue evenly and slowly. “Was she injured when she arrived?”

Evie looks at me sharply.

The woman stares—at me, but I can’t say I’m reading any emotion.

Silence stretches.

Finally, the woman says, “All residents here are under care.”

Not were. Are.