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My mouth twists to one side. Fabulous. Not only do I have to deal with an overly aggressive reception, I’m also being hit by this faith stuff from all sides.

“I’m here because I made a mistake. Pure and simple.”

Her eyes drift around the room before landing on me. “You and me both. I should have started carrying the mace Mick asked me to.”

The idea of Mick trying to protect her makes my stomach hurt even more. “It wouldn’t have helped. If anything, it would have made it worse.”

She glances at me then looks at the door. “I should be in Arizona by now. My source is going to think I bailed.”

I cock my head in confusion. “Your source?”

She releases a breath. “I’ve got a whistleblower ready to talk.”

“Which industry?”

Her gaze lands on me, and her lips twitch. “What’s on the memory card?”

I snort a laugh, and she smiles in response before picking at a hole in her jeans. “We’re probably not going to make it out of here. Pretty sure they’re planning on blowing something up in Miami,” she says.

I shiver as dread makes cold spill through my body. “So tell me then.”

She opens her mouth, pauses, then heaves a sigh. “I can’t. I swore I wouldn’t tell a soul, and I’m not going to.”

“Even if you never get a chance to write the story?”

She sighs again. “It’s not just about the story. It’s about doing the right thing. Maybe you should consider doing that sometime?”

There’s the tiniest pitch to her question that makes me hesitate. “Like I said. I’m getting what I deserve.”

She doesn’t get a chance to reply. The door opens again, and the same thug who punched and kicked me fills the doorway. “Move,” he barks.

To avoid any further manhandling, I haul myself up, trying not to aggravate my injuries any further than they are.

“They won’t give you mercy,” Brooke whispers, “but God will.”

Mercy. The word scrapes something raw inside me.

No one’s ever shown me mercy. Not the system. Not the people who should’ve protected me.

No one… except Mick.

I stagger out—only to be yanked sideways into a dim kitchen with peeling walls and shadows that press in close.

A slender, solitary figure, dressed in an elegant pantsuit with a hijab covering her hair, is seated at the table. Her face is hidden until she looks up from the laptop in front of her. Familiar cool green eyes meet mine.

I rear back, stunned, and try to turn but am blocked by the brute smirking at me. He grabs my shoulders, holding me in place.

She looks me over and then raises a sculptured eyebrow. “Darling, whatareyou wearing?” Mona says.

Eighteen

Samantha

The air is thick with the smell of garlic, old olive oil, and something sharper—pickled turnips maybe, or yogurt left too long in the heat. The sink overflows with dishes crusted in lentils and charred onion, while a single fly loops lazily around a sticky jar of tahini.

Apparently the terrorists have been too busy hunting me through Miami to worry about doing the dishes.

Gathering my composure, I sit opposite her. “You knew.”