Behind the counter, Nora stood up.
Paul turned, but the seven-year-old was already pointing through the glass at the bag in her father’s hand.
“There’s another syringe in the front pocket,” Nora said. “He put it in a paper towel.”
Richard looked down at his bag.
It was his second critical mistake. His first had been assuming his seven-year-old daughters would be too terrified to speak. His second was confirming, with a single reflexive glance, that Nora knew precisely what was hidden inside his bag.
Paul instructed Richard over the intercom to set the bag on the pavement and step back. Richard refused, backing away toward his SUV.
A second officer stepped through the side entrance, joining Paul in the lobby. Together, they exited through the secured side door, cutting off Richard’s path to his vehicle.
There was no high-speed pursuit. There was no dramatic physical struggle. There was only a heavy leather bag placed on the hood of a cruiser while Richard stood against the vehicle, breathing heavily, insisting that everything inside was private medical property.
