Bloodlines and Brain Surgery Secrets

Summary

“Miss Clarke, the car is waiting.”

The black Rolls-Royce Ghost idled silently outside the hospital entrance.

The chauffeur, clad in a suit and white gloves, gave me a small, deferential bow.

I froze.

Miss Clarke.

My name is Dr. Samantha Clarke, and I am thirty-two years old. Since the day I was dropped off at the state-run orphanage at the age of eight, I hadn't heard that formal address from anyone associated with the Caldwells.

Twenty-six years. Not a single phone call, not a letter, not a dime.

And now, they send a Rolls-Royce?

I didn't move.