A Change of Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

slow supply of his insides.
    Evidently, he had also thrown away ten years of medical education and every iota of common sense.
    Jess Koirala was either a really good actress or she was one of those metaphysical types who actually believed the crap she was handing out.
    But what if it wasn’t crap?
    And there it was again. He rubbed the stubbly back of his head as though that could erase the stupidity.
    No. It was crap. But it was impressively well-executed crap. Whatever she was planning, she had pulled it off brilliantly—catching him at the lowest point of his day, or highest, if you were measuring blood alcohol levels. All the disappearing around corners, the trembling fingers, the dark clothes. That hair.
    Then there was the scar. He couldn’t get that slash of raised skin out of his head. Even though he hadn’t touched it, he could feel its pliant thickness against his fingers like a memory he hadn’t created yet.
    He had to stop this. He might suck at what he did now, but he had been a damn good physician in his past life. Organ transplants transferred no feelings, no memories, no personality traits from donor to recipient. It was just a spare part being installed in a different machine. That’s all.
    That is all.
    So Miss Koirala was up to something.
    It was time to find out what it was, and once he did he was going to make her regret ever defiling Jen’s memory.
    Without giving himself time to think, he yanked open a dresser drawer. Right behind his wallet, tucked at the very back of the drawer, was a plain white business card.
    He checked the alarm clock on his nightstand. It was six a.m. Which meant it was still late afternoon in Mumbai. DCP Rahul Savant, the card said next to a hand-scrawled number.
    Rahul Savant. The cop’s name brought on a vivid rush of memories. Jen’s body being lifted into the ambulance. The endless lineups of criminals. Identifying the bastards, but getting absolutely no satisfaction from it, only more anger and the crazed desire to kill them with his bare hands.
    The questions that had gone on even after he had put the bastards in prison.
    And then that day when DCP Savant had upended his already upended world.
    Jen was helping us with an investigation.
    He would never forget the look on the cop’s face when he had told Nikhil that his wife had lied to him. Kept such a huge secret from him. Put herself in danger. Put their baby in danger. Left him out. Left him.
    Jen’s murder wasn’t a random crime, the bastard had said, looking at Nikhil as though he understood what Nikhil was feeling. Someone was using Jen’s donor registry database to steal organs. She had all the evidence we need to put these bastards away. We need your help finding it. You owe her that.
    Those words had shut everything down, destroyed everything, his anger an inferno so consuming it had burned down who he had been and left behind this charred, smoking mess that he didn’t know what to do with.
    The bastard had put Jen in danger. He had cost Jen her life because he hadn’t done his job and protected her, and he had the gall to tell Nikhil what he owed his wife. Nikhil had told him and his smarmy politician boss to go to hell.
    The only way I will ever help you is if you bring my wife back.
    The politician had thought Nikhil was kidding. The smile that had split his face had reminded Nikhil of a wound that needed suturing. But Nikhil had meant it. It had felt like the only way anything would ever make sense again. He’d been right because nothing had made sense since then.
    Before he could slide the business card back in the drawer, he dialed.
    The cop answered on the first ring. “DCP Savant.”
    Nikhil almost hung up.
    â€œHello? Who’s speaking?”
    The bastard didn’t have the right to sound this calm. “This is Nikhil Joshi. Calling from America.” Technically, they were in Jamaica right now, but he didn’t think the cop