Perhaps Dr. Abigail Martinez wasn’t such a needle after all. But a week went by, and she remained missing. His boss, swamped with work after leaving the hospital, still demanded daily reports on two fronts — the kidnapping and the search for Martinez.

  There was no progress on either.

  Demis had hoped Ralph’s memory of the forest would lead somewhere, but it ended in nothing. The emergency room had no record of an ambulance call, no note of a vagrant picked up among the trees. After pressing them for answers, he learned only this: Ralph hadn’t been brought in by an ambulance. Someone else had left him at the ER.

  Who on Earth?

  The search for Abigail Martinez was just as frustrating. Normally, finding someone in a big city wasn’t such a challenge — especially if that someone was a doctor.

  But Dr. Martinez proved to be a tough nut to crack.

  There were only three names on the list: Abby Martinez, a paediatrician from the Southeast District; Abigail Martinez, a dental hygienist; and Abigail Martinez, who lived near the Old River Port, in a shabby district crowded with migrants.

  There was little point in pursuing Abigail Martinez, the sixty-eight-year-old dental hygienist. All hopes narrowed to Abby Martinez from the Southeast, thirty years old. She seemed to fit: a paediatrician who had recently retrained as a surgeon, with her career and personal life in flux. Marriage, a new job, a sudden move—her trail was harder to follow than expected, yet not impossible. After all, as Ralph liked to remind them, a doctor is no needle in a haystack. But when they finally reached her, the truth hit like a bucket of cold water: Dr. Martinez, the promising young surgeon, had nothing to do with Ralph's rescue.

  The lead on Abigail Martinez from the slums of Old River Port proved no better. Demis went to her registered address, more to clear his conscience than in hope. Abigail wasn’t home, and her mother refused him entry. When he called Abigail ‘doctor,’ Mrs. Martinez burst into a cold, bitter laugh.

  “Doctor? Look around you, you fool! How could I possibly pay for my daughter’s medical school?”

  Demis didn’t need to look long to see she was right. He would have been glad to get out of there immediately. But Mrs. Martinez was not going to let her victim go so easily.

  “Dreams and education are for the rich!” she shouted. “The poor are left with nothing but labor—hard, but honest. Like my daughter, who earns her keep honestly, working as a nurse in the local hospital.”

  Her voice echoed through the stairwell, loud enough to make the neighbors poke their heads out of their doors. From the amused expressions on their faces, Demis realized this wasn’t the first time they’d witnessed one of her performances.

  “I am not ashamed that I couldn’t pay for my daughter’s medical schooling. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. Doctors are greedy bastards—they only care for the rich. The rest are left to die in the corridors. I’d rather see my daughter remain a poor nurse than become a wealthy killer.”

  Finally, she slammed the door in his face.

  Questioning the neighbors yielded nothing. They confirmed Mrs. Martinez’s words: her daughter had attended a public college and now worked as a nurse in a hospital for the poor. No one even considered that she could have become a doctor.

  His last hope rested on Dr. Colbert. The surgeon was known to be sympathetic toward Abigail, yet Demis remained cautious of Colbert’s young assistant, who seemed well connected to hospital administration. Demis had glimpsed their brief exchange on the day it became known that Abigail had covered Ralph’s surgery.

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  “Listen, lad,” Dr. Colbert hissed, leaning close. “I know you and Abigail broke up. But be a man. She needs this money—especially after getting fired.”

  Chuck’s expression hardened.

  “What are you talking about, doctor? You don’t know her as I do. Yes, we broke up, but I care about her—more than anyone else.”

  Colbert let out a dry, sharp laugh.

  “Oh, I saw how much you care. That night, in particular.”

  Chuck shrugged, defiant.

  “We argued. I asked her where she got the money, and she blew up—as always when she thought she’d done something wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Yes. We still don’t know where the money came from.”

  “From Charlie’s family, I assume?”

  Chuck shook his head, frowning.

  “No. She was furious with Susan. It didn’t come from Susan. The money came from somewhere else.”

  Chuck sighed deeply. “I just don’t want to be the one to drag her to the police.”

  Colbert’s voice was firm. “Rubbish. Abigail would never do anything illegal.”

  Chuck hesitated, quieter now. “She was desperate, you know. Helping Charlie… it became an obsession.”

  Demis, eavesdropping through the half-open door, didn’t believe a word Chuck said. The young man sounded utterly insincere. Apparently, Colbert shared the same impression.

  A few minutes later, they crossed paths in the corridor. Colbert stopped Demis and—unexpectedly—struck up a casual conversation.

  “Oh… I’ve been meaning to ask—how was Mr. Willowby’s funeral?”

  Demis opened his mouth to reply that he’d never heard of Mr. Willowby, but Colbert didn’t give him a chance.

  “I couldn’t attend. I was in surgery. Such a shame… He was my patient, you know. Died the very day Mr. Dengof arrived. Poor Abigail.”

  Colbert sighed, letting his words hang, nudging Demis to understand the subtle story he was performing.

  Demis’s eyes flicked toward the end of the hall. Chuck lingered there, pretending to be casual but clearly eavesdropping.

  “Uh… I didn’t know they were so close. I mean, Abigail and Mr. Willo—”

  He fell silent, unsure how to pronounce Charlie’s last name.

  “Oh indeed? Very close. Like father and daughter.”

  “But they weren’t related, were they?”

  Colbert shook his head. “She couldn’t do more if he were her real father. She did everything she could to save him. I mean it—everything.”

  Colbert’s tone softened further, almost confiding. Demis nodded, showing he understood the implication.

  “Well, how did she take it? His death, I mean.”

  “It was a tragedy,” Colbert replied. He sighed. “Charles Willowby. Rest in peace.”

  Colbert patted him lightly on the sleeve, then quickly walked down the corridor.

  The name Willowby meant nothing to Demis. But when he mentioned it to Ralph, his boss’s expression darkened.

  “Did you know him, boss?”

  Ralph hesitated for a moment.

  “Not in person. But… interesting. Could it be the same Willowby?”

  Demis watched him silently. Ralph was quiet for a while, thinking. When he spoke again, the conversation returned to Abigail Martinez.

  “I think we should visit Mrs. Martinez one more time,” Ralph said.

  “Why? Do you think—”

  “That her daughter is the doctor?” Ralph laughed shortly. “Of course, she is.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The poverty,” Ralph answered. “If she really is as poor as a church mouse—”

  “But that can’t be, boss,” Demis said skeptically. “She would never spend money on a stranger if she herself was short of money!”

  Ralph smiled faintly, shaking his head.

  “On the contrary. Poor people often spend money recklessly—they don’t know its worth when it lands in their hands. That’s why money never lifts them out of poverty. That, essentially, is Abigail Martinez’s story.”

  “So spending money to save your life… was foolish?” Demis’s tone softened, tinged with disbelief.

  Ralph nodded. “Spending money earned with difficulty—perhaps at great risk—on an unknown stranger? Oh yes. That was extremely foolish of her.”

  Demis laughed and shook his head. He’d known his boss a long time, yet still found it hard to believe that this seemingly cynical remark was sincere.

  “So you don’t feel the slightest bit of gratitude toward Miss Martinez?” he asked, still skeptical.

  Ralph shrugged.

  “Why should I? Miss Martinez acted entirely in accordance with her principles and upbringing. It’s pointless to thank someone for being who they are.”

  “Still, you owe her.”

  Ralph nodded.

  “Yes. It’s only about the money, and I’ll repay her for the expenses she incurred. But as for gratitude… the only one I really have to thank is Mrs. Martinez. Because if she’d raised her daughter differently—to be more practical—I might already be dead.”