“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at her throat while he took a step closer. “Is it a birthmark? Or a scar, maybe?”
Solara touched the base of her neck and felt something sticky. When she pulled her hand away, her fingertips were covered in an oily peach goo. She frowned at the substance before realizing what had happened. The ninety-proof Crystalline she’d dribbled all over herself must’ve slowly eaten away at her makeup. She jerked her gaze to her knuckles, where black ink peeked out between gaps in the concealer.
That didn’t escape the doctor’s notice, either.
She hid both hands behind her back, but it was too late. She could see the questions forming in his mind as his gaze sharpened, refocusing on her throat. There was only one reason for a girl to cover her knuckles with cosmetics, and anyone smart enough to graduate from medical school would figure it out. And unless he lived in a cave, he’d recognize her birthmark, too.
The door slid open and Renny stood on the other side, assessing the mood with a quick glance. Instead of joining them, he patted his breast pocket and thumbed over one shoulder. “I’m stepping outside for a smoke. Hang in there, sweetie. I’ll be back before you can blink.”
Solara exhaled in relief. That was their signal—a message that he’d stolen the Tissue-Bond and would wait for her in the shuttle. Now all she had to do was create a believable excuse to follow him.
“Okay,” she said. “But I wish you’d quit. Those things will kill you.”
“So will drunken table dancing,” he replied with a wink, and strode away.
The young doctor didn’t laugh. He watched Renny disappear into the lobby before turning back to Solara with his brow creased in deep concentration. She didn’t need X-ray vision to see the puzzle pieces clicking inside his head. It was time to get out of here.
Rotating her ankle, she said, “The gel pack must have helped, because I feel a little better.” She stood from the table and pretended to test her weight, limping when her bare left foot touched the floor. “Where’s the bathroom?”
The young man’s eyes widened by a fraction, and there it was—the unmistakable spark of realization that said he’d finally made the connection. He knew who she was.
“Let me find you a wheelchair,” he told her, backing toward the exit. “Stay put.”
Then he darted out and shut the door behind him.
Solara ran after him, but when she tapped the exit panel, the door refused to open. She grabbed the manual lever and tried hauling it aside, but no matter how hard she tugged, the door wouldn’t budge. He’d locked her in.
The bottom fell out of her stomach.
Once he alerted security, the complex would go on lockdown. If she didn’t make it to the docking lot soon, Renny would have no choice but to leave her behind. Which meant her life was as good as over.
Survival instincts kicked in, and she spun a rotation to check for windows or an air duct wide enough to crawl through. There was nothing, not even a heat register. Whirling back to face the door, she studied the exit panel—a thin, steely plate designed to respond to the touch. If she could pry the panel free, she might be able to override the lock.
She plucked a hairpin from her braids and wedged one narrow point beneath the panel’s lip, working it back and forth until it slipped halfway underneath. Then, using a tongue depressor as leverage, she widened the gap between the panel and the wall until there was enough room to wriggle her fingers inside. With a gentle force, she pulled the plate free, making sure to leave plenty of slack for the wires connected to the other side.
Sweat slicked her hands, and she wiped them on her gown without a care for how much it cost. Right now nothing was worth more than her freedom. Squinting, she studied the tangle of electrical tubing and immediately picked out the grounders and hot wires, the ones to leave alone. Of the remaining cables, she began systematically pulling and reattaching them until she found the emergency override. The door slid open, and she didn’t waste another second inside that room.