Page 32 of Fat Arranged Mate
The door clicks shut behind her, and I exhale slowly. Three days of careful observation since Dylan's infiltration of the Guardians' meeting has confirmed our worst suspicions—the clinic isn't just treating random hunters. It's an active participant in their operations.
I slot the clipboard into its holder, mind racing. If the clinic maintains records of these specialized orders, there might be a paper trail linking them directly to the Guardians. Evidence we could send back to Silvercreek, perhaps even to regional law enforcement, who might actually uphold shifter protection laws.
Dr. Sanders' office would have access codes for the electronic ordering system. And with the staff meeting pulling everyone to the conference room...
The decision forms before I fully acknowledge it. I check my watch—fourteen minutes until the meeting begins. Most staff will head there early for coffee. A narrow window, but potentially enough.
I slip out of the supply room, locking it as instructed, then make my way down the quiet hallway toward administration. My footsteps echo against linoleum tiles, each sound magnifiedby the emptying clinic. A patient calls out from an exam room, quickly attended to by a harried-looking technician. Perfect timing—the skeleton crew is focused elsewhere.
Dr. Sanders' office sits at the end of the administrative wing, door closed but unlocked when I test the handle. Inside, the space smells of coffee and peppermint, with walls lined with medical degrees and family photos. His computer glows with a screensaver of mountain landscapes—scenes from the very forests his friends are planning to "cleanse."
I slide into his chair, heart hammering against my ribs. The login screen stares back at me, password-protected as expected. I try the most obvious combination first—his initials and birth year, visible on his medical license on the wall. Access denied.
Next, I check beneath the keyboard and inside the top drawer—common hiding spots for written passwords. Nothing. The clock on the wall shows three minutes elapsed. Eleven remaining before the meeting officially starts, but staff are already gathering. I can hear their voices down the hall.
On impulse, I glance at the family photo on his desk—Sanders with his wife and a German Shepherd, standing beside a fishing boat. The name painted on the boat's hull: "Silver Minnow."
I type "SilverMinnow" into the password field. The screen blinks, then opens to his desktop.
My fingers move quickly through file directories, searching for supply orders, vendor communications, anything connecting the clinic to the Guardians' activities. I find the purchasing system, scanning recent orders, with growing unease. Each form bears a project code I don't recognize: OP-PROTECTORATE.
The sudden sound of heels clicking on tile outside the office freezes me in place. I quickly close the files, but before I can log out, the door handle turns.
I dive beneath the desk just as the door swings open, tucking myself into the kneehole space. Perfume enters before its wearer—Diane's distinctive sandalwood scent, too strong for the small office.
"Dr. Sanders?" she calls, then sighs upon finding the room empty.
From my hidden position, I see only her sensible white shoes as she approaches the desk. They pause directly in front of me, inches from discovery.
"Weird," she murmurs. "Could have sworn I locked his computer earlier."
My heart hammers so loudly I'm certain she must hear it. Her hand appears, reaching for the mouse. The screen clicks as she navigates, checking something before logging out. The shoes pivot, move toward the door. Pause.
"Hello?" she calls, as if sensing something amiss.
I hold my breath, pressing myself deeper into the shadows beneath the desk. One discovery, one mistake, and our entire mission collapses. Worse, I'd be alone in a building full of shifter-haters with no immediate backup.
After an eternity, the shoes turn again and retreat. The door closes with a soft click.
I count to sixty before emerging, legs stiff from the cramped position. The computer is locked again, opportunity lost. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to care. I just need to get out before anyone realizes I missed the staff meeting.
The side entrance offers the best escape route—less visible from the main areas, leading to the employee parking lot, where I can text Dylan for pickup and come up with an excuse for my colleagues later. I make my way there with deliberate casualness, nodding to a lab tech who barely glances up from his microscope.
Cool air hits my face as I push through the metal door, the sudden transition from fluorescent lighting to natural sunshine momentarily disorienting. I've made it out. I'm safe.
Then why can't I breathe?
The first wave hits without warning—my chest constricting as if bound by iron. My vision tunnels, dark edges creeping inward as I stumble against the brick wall of the building. My phone slips from suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the pavement.
I know this feeling. The crushing pressure. The certainty of imminent danger. My body remembering what my mind tries to forget.
Cheslem. The storeroom where they locked disobedient wolves. The smell of wolfsbane and corruption and fear. The helplessness.
I slide down the wall, concrete rough against my back, legs folding beneath me. My lungs burn with the effort to draw air that won't come. Rational thought dissolves under the tide of panic, leaving only animal terror.
Hide. Run. Survive.
But my body won't respond, frozen in the grip of memory stronger than present reality. I press my forehead to my knees, trying to make myself smaller, invisible to threats my mind insists are surrounding me.
