Chapter 9

They arrested Paul at 9:42 p.m. on December 18. The state medical board suspended his license before midnight. The FBI seized the clinic billing servers. Sarah Bluebell gave a full statement.

Greta Mullen was charged with forgery, notary fraud, and obstruction. Her son Toby was placed with his grandmother. She agreed to testify against Paul in exchange for a reduced sentence.

Paul’s arrest made the Astoria headlines for one day. Then the story grew teeth. Former patients came forward. Parents. Foster kids. The unnecessary surgeries. The forged consents. The dead wife.

On December 19, the district attorney filed murder charges. The fire marshal reopened Irina’s case. The lab found accelerant on the kitchen floor.

I sat in the courthouse hallway with Emil on my lap and Lina pressed against my side. Greta walked past in shackles. She didn’t look at me.

“Auntie,” Lina whispered. “Is Daddy gone?”

“For a long time,” I said.

On December 20, Judge Alvarez granted me emergency custody. It wasn’t permanent. The state still had to review my criminal record, my dock, my life. But the children were staying with me.

After the hearing, Agent Reyes found me outside. “You broke about six laws getting that evidence.”

“I know.”

“The DA is willing to drop the burglary charge if you plead to a misdemeanor trespass and cooperate fully.”

“And the kidnapping charge?”

“Paul dropped it when his lawyer saw the recording of him admitting to Irina’s murder.”

I let out a breath I’d been holding for six weeks.

That night, I brought Emil and Lina home to Pier 9. The rain had finally stopped. The Columbia River lay flat and gray under the sodium lights.

Emil stood at the service gate where he had collapsed. He looked at the iron bars, then at me.

“Are we safe now?” he asked.

I knelt down and pulled him close. “Safer than yesterday.”

Lina held up the pre-op card. I took it and fed it into the office shredder. The red notary seal tore into strips.

Then I locked the gate, took both children by the hand, and walked them up the stairs to the family apartment above the office. The lights were on. The kettle was warm. Ben stood at the stove, making hot chocolate.

For the first time since Irina died, the pier felt like a home instead of a fortress.