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Huh? Who doesn’t remember what shows they watched as a kid?

Her eyes shift to the TV screen, and she tugs her cardigan tighter, like she’s trying to protect herself.

Knucklehead. She probablyistrying to protect herself. If she suffered any abuse during her childhood, she’s not going to want to relive it. Mentally slapping myself, I sit back and watch as the opening credits close and Jed Clampett fills the screen.

At first, she doesn’t react. She just stares straight ahead, arms folded, every part of her broadcasting disinterest. But then I hear it—a soft, involuntary snort. I glance over just in time to catch the corners of her mouth twitch.

A few minutes later, she lets out a real laugh. Not that polished one she used to get what she wanted—this one’s different. Warm. Unfiltered. It rolls out of her without hesitation.

She leans back, watching the screen with a look I haven’t seen on her before. Unworried. Young. For a second, she’s not the woman running from danger or calculating her next move. She’s just... a girl enjoying something ridiculous on TV.

When a kiss scene goes off the rails, she turns slightly, catching me watching her. I start to look away but she doesn’t flinch, just holds my gaze with a flicker of something I can’t name.

The show ends and she sighs, curling deeper into the chair like maybe, just for tonight, she’s safe enough to stay.

“You want to watch another episode?”

She shakes her head. “I’m tired. Do I have your permission to sleep? Or do you need to run it through a committee?”

This is the opportunity I need. “You can sleep. Give me a minute to use the bathroom first.”

When she shrugs, I get to my feet and enter the bedroom, eyes on the pack pushed into a corner of the room. Grabbing it, I head into the bathroom, leaving the door open in case she decides to ignore my instruction.

As expected, everything is wet, so I carefully haul out clothing and dump it into the basin, mentally tallying everything as I go. Sneakers, underwear, T-shirt, sundress, hat, sunscreen, glasses… As I haul out a plastic-wrapped package the size of a brick, my stomach tightens.

There are only two things I’ve ever seen wrapped that way. Drugs and money.

I leave the package to one side and shake out the pack, opening every compartment until I hit the jackpot. A cell phone tumbles out onto the pile of clothing. I put everything back the way I found it, including the money, and tap out a text to Silas.

Located phone.

His reply is so quick it’s almost as if he pre-programmed it.

It’ll be returned in an hour.

An hour. What if she opens her pack and sees it’s missing?

I begin to ask him how it’ll be returned but pause to think it through. If she notices it’s missing, she’ll either assume I took it or that she lost it when she was in the water.

I zip the pack, crack the window, and drop the phone out with a breath that borders on prayer, hoping she hasn’t somehow picked the front lock. If Silas is good for his word—and I’ve no reason to doubt him—she wouldn’t make it to the end of the street before his guy spotted her. I slide the pack back in place and glance into the living area, relieved to find Samantha thumbing through a visitor’s brochure.

I glance at the layout of the bedroom. Nice going, Silas. A king-size bed.

Hopefully it’s two singles pushed together and I can separate them. I could take the sofa, but it’s too short, and it’s tough to keep an eye on someone if you’re not in the same room as them.

Frowning at my continued bad luck, I throw back the covers on the closest side and do a mental fist pump when I see it’s two singles. As quickly as I can, I strip the bed, leave her half the sheets and coverings, and toss the pillows on top. I grab the mattress, ready to drag it off, and nearly drop it again when I see the object tucked beneath it.

It’s a hasty hiding place, but it’s as good a place as any to hide a Ruger.

I freeze. Then I slide my gaze to the door.

This time Idon’thesitate to text. But it’s not Silas; it’s my sister.

What was the caliber of the weapon used on the guy in South Beach?

Unlike Silas’s, Brooke’s reply doesn’t come in immediately. Seconds pass into minutes until I have no choice but to remove the gun. I grab a hand towel, wrap it around the gun, and scan the room for a place to keep it hidden.

When I can’t find a suitable hiding place, I return to the bathroom, crank open the window again, and fire out a text to Silas.