Chapter 35 The Private Clinic
Two days of planning. That’s all they allowed themselves before the urgency and the fear of losing the thread pushed them forward. The Clairewater Private Clinic & Pharmacy sat in an upscale commercial district twenty minutes off-campus, a discreet building of tinted glass and pale stone that looked more like a fancy hotel than a medical facility.
“Last chance to back out,” Silas said, but his voice held no real hope that she would.
“Not a chance,” Mia replied, checking her reflection in a shop window across the street. She’d dressed carefully, putting on her best blouse, neat slacks, and minimal makeup. The goal was to look like a student from a well-off family with a private health concern. Looking nervous but entitled enough to demand attention.
Silas wore dark, plain clothes and a baseball cap pulled low. In his pocket was a cloned access card he’d obtained through methods he’d refused to explain, saying only, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
The plan was simple and terrifying. Mia would go in as a walk-in patient with vague symptoms like anxiety, stress, and academic pressure. She’d tie up the front desk, demanding immediate help, being just difficult enough to require full attention. Silas would use the distraction to slip through the rear entrance with the cloned card and find the records room.
“Ten minutes,” Silas said, checking his watch. “That’s all I need. If I’m not out by then, leave. Don’t wait for me.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Mia…”
“I said I’m not leaving you.” Her voice was steel. “We do this together or not at all.”
Something flickered across his face like gratitude, or maybe acceptance. “Fine. But if this goes wrong…”
“It won’t,” Mia said with more confidence than she felt, then crossed the street before she could talk herself out of it.
The clinic’s interior was quiet luxury—soft carpet, expensive art on the walls, the kind of place where privacy was as much the product as the healthcare. A single receptionist, dressed perfectly in clinical whites that looked like designers, looked up with a practised smile.
“I need to see someone,” Mia said, and she didn’t have to fake the tremor in her voice. “A doctor. I think… I think I’m having panic attacks. They’re getting worse. My friend said this place was good, that you could see me without… without my family knowing.”
The receptionist’s smile became more sympathetic. “Of course. Let me just get some information from you. Do you have insurance?”
As the receptionist began pulling up forms and asking questions, Mia caught the briefest flash of movement in her peripheral vision, the rear staff door opening a crack, then silently closing. Silas was in.
The next ten minutes were torture. Mia fumbled with fake insurance details, asked questions about privacy, about whether there were payment plans, about what kind of doctors they had on staff. She was the anxious, scattered college student, unsure but demanding, requiring patience and attention.
Every second felt like an hour. Had he been caught? Had an alarm gone off somewhere?
In the back hallways, Silas moved like a ghost. The cloned card got him through two security doors, and then he was standing in front of a room marked Records: Authorized Personnel Only. His card sparked another green light. The door clicked open.
Inside was exactly what he’d hoped for…filing cabinets, organized by year and alphabet, and a locked server rack he ignored. He went straight to the cabinets, finding the current year section, then the drawer marked M through Z.
His hands moved quickly, flipping through folders. Underwood. Valdez. Then Vance.
He pulled the folder, his heart pounding. Inside was a medical history of routine visits, some annual checkups, a prescription for birth control, treatment for a sprained ankle. All perfectly normal. Then, dated few weeks before Ethan’s death, an intake form.
Reason for visit: Persistent anxiety, mood swings, intrusive thoughts.
Doctor’s diagnosis, scrawled in barely readable handwriting: Adjustment disorder with mixed anxiety and depressed mood.
Prescribed medication: Carbamazepine 30mg, thirty tablets.
It was all there. Legally documented. A perfect paper trail for a drug that, in combination with what Ethan was taking, could be deadly.
She hadn’t just gotten the drug. She’d built an entire medical justification for it. Had sat in some doctor’s office and performed another role, creating an excuse for her murder weapon.
Silas was photographing the pages with his phone, hands shaking with rage and relief, when he heard footsteps in the hallway coming closer. A woman’s voice, cheerful and unaware. “Did the supply delivery for Room 3 arrive?”
He froze, shoving the folder back and sliding the drawer shut with agonising care. The footsteps were right outside. The door handle began to turn.
In the lobby, Mia saw a nurse glance toward the back hallway with mild curiosity, starting to stand.
Panic shot through her like electricity. Without thinking, without planning, she doubled over in her chair with a convincing moan. “I’m… I’m going to be sick. I think I’m…” She made a gagging sound, clutching her stomach.
The receptionist’s professional calm shattered. “Oh! Hold on, just… bathroom is right through there!” She rushed from behind the desk, abandoning her post, all attention focused on the potentially vomiting patient.
In the back, the nurse who’d been about to open the records room door paused, hearing the commotion. “Is everything okay out front?”
“New patient, getting sick,” another voice called. “Can you grab the mop from the supply closet?”
The footsteps retreated. The door never opened. Silas waited until the hallway was silent, then slipped out, moving quickly back the way he’d come.
Mia, in the lobby, was being guided toward the bathroom by the concerned receptionist. “Take your time, honey. Do you need me to call anyone?”
“No, I just… I think it was something I ate. I’m so sorry.” Mia straightened gradually, forcing color back into her face. “Actually, I think I should just go home. Lie down. I’m really sorry for the trouble.”
“Are you sure? We could still have someone look at you…”
“No, really. I’m fine. I just need to rest.” Mia gathered her bag, smiled apologetically, and made for the door before anyone could stop her.
She walked quickly but didn’t run, turned the corner, and found Silas waiting in the narrow alley between the clinic and the adjacent building. He was checking his phone when his head snapped up, eyes widening. “Security guard,” he hissed, and suddenly his hand was on her arm, pulling her deeper into the shadows behind a dumpster. The space was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. Their bodies pressed close instinctively, trying to make themselves invisible as footsteps passed the alley entrance.
“Did you get it?” Mia whispered, still frozen in place.
Silas nodded, holding up his phone. “Everything. The diagnosis. The prescription. All under her name, it was dated weeks before Ethan died.”
The footsteps began to fade, but neither of them moved. Both breathing hard from adrenaline and fear and the sheer recklessness of what they’d just done. Mia could feel Silas’s heartbeat against her own, and could see the rapid pulse in his throat.
“She built a whole story for it,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “Sat in that office, performed symptoms, got a diagnosis. She’s not just a liar, Mia. She’s…“