Page 20

As Caleb and Jake confer, I keep my eyes on Samantha, praying that she wasn’t under the water long. The next few hours will be crucial. If she develops breathing difficulties, sleepiness, or confusion, nothing is going to keep me from getting her to the hospital.

“Someone want to tell me who those guys were?” I say.

Jake rounds a bend too quickly.

“We’ll talk more when we get there,” Caleb says.

“And where isthere?”

Caleb replies. “B and B on Lenox Ave. A nurse is waiting. Sinai is an eight-minute drive away.”

It’s not ideal, but at least I can get her on ALS if she deteriorates.

I glance at Samantha. Her arms are wrapped around her body, and she’s shivering. Whether it’s from cold, shock, or fear, I won’t know until someone checks her out.

We make it across town in record time, but by the time we reach Lenox Avenue, she’s still shivering, her teeth are chattering, and she’s slumped against the door.

Jake pulls up outside a pale pink, art deco-style house with curved corners and glass block windows. I unbuckle while Caleb opens the door for Samantha like she’s royalty.

Samantha, for the most part, looks bewildered, but when he holds out his meaty forearm for her to grab, she reluctantly accepts his help and allows him to walk her toward the house.

I slam the door shut as Jake comes alongside me and smirks under the street lamp. “I was expecting a knockout, not a drowned rat.”

I reward his lousy attempt at humor with a glare. “Not funny.”

Nothing about this is funny.

Not a single thing.

The woman I so badly wanted to see in chains is just as helpless as any other victim I’ve rescued.

Jake’s smile lessens. “Yeah. Well, don’t forget she’s a con artist. Wouldn’t be surprised if she faked drowning to get sympathy.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks into the house, whistling, planting a seed of doubt that instantly replaces my concern.

Samantha

As the hulking man bustles me inside, I’m shivering so hard I can’t think about anything but getting warm.

The interior is dim and still, the faint scent of lemon polish clinging to the air.

Retro tile floors stretch beneath my feet, and curved archways lead into a quiet sitting room furnished with mid-century chairs and faded tropical prints. A ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring the heavy silence.

I don’t understand any of this. Not the cops, not Mick saving me, not the fancy bed-and-breakfast. None of it makes sense.

I should be dead.

Given who I’m with, that might still be the better option.

A woman appears, khaki pants, loose linen shirt, sensible shoes. With her short nails, hair tied back, and no makeup on her, either she’s the nurse they arranged to be here, or she’s posing as one. The concern on her face seems real enough, but I know better than anyone that appearances can be deceiving.

“Oh, you poor thing, come with me,” she says.

Caleb hands me off to her, and she grips me tight as though I might topple over any minute. Not a chance. Whatever happened to me is over and done with.

Time to regroup and find a way out of here.

The nurse leads me into a bedroom, where she’s set up a makeshift medical center. Supplies are spread across a desk and nightstand—gauze, antiseptic, a blood pressure cuff, and a small oxygen tank. A portable monitor beeps softly in the corner, and a box of gloves sits beside a roll of medical tape.