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He shrugged, not looking at her.

“Neither are you.”

Jude wrapped her arms around herself, staring out at the dark expanse.

“It’s getting close,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

I finally turned, stepping close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.

“Whatever happens,” he said low, “you’re not alone. Remember that, sunshine.”

She opened her mouth to argue. Closed it again when she saw the look in his eyes.

He wasn’t asking for permission. He was telling her a fact.

Jude’s throat burned. She nodded stiffly.

And I, because I knew if I touched her now, I wouldn’t be able to stop, I turned and walked back toward the house without another word.

Jude stood there for a long time, heart pounding like a drum in her ears.

The clock was ticking.

The enemy was coming.

And for the first time in a long time... she wasn’t running away.

She was runningtowardit. She worked six years trying to take him down, now was the time.

And she wasn’t doing it alone.

22

Jude

The sky burned copper and crimson as the sun sank below the desert horizon.

I stood alone at the edge of the old corral, staring out over the cracked earth.

I held a small, worn photograph in my hand—the only one I had in my bag after the bombing. I used to think I had no right to laugh, because I was alive and they were dead. I took it with me everywhere.

My husband’s easy grin. My daughter’s wild, carefree laugh frozen forever in the frame.

Two lives stolen.

A future erased.

She traced their faces with her thumb, her chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.

“I’m going to end this,” she whispered to the photo.

“I swear to you, I’m going to make him pay.”

The wind stirred my hair, carrying the scent of dry sage and dust.

It almost felt like they were answering her—like they were still here somehow, watching.

Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t wipe them away.