Page 18 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

To avoid having to body search her again, I check the bathroom thoroughly and place anything even remotely resembling a weapon into the trash. That means the disposable razor and the nail clippers. My eyes linger on the sewing kit. It’s sure to contain needles, but I doubt she’s able to do much harm with that.

Unless I get close to her, which is not going to happen.

I grab the trash can and exit the bathroom, leaving the door open so enough light spills into the room to see but leaves it dark enough so we can sleep.

My phone vibrates as I enter the bedroom again.

Knock, knock.

Silas.

Samantha eyes me from where she’s lying propped up in bed, covers pulled up to her neck.

“Where are you going?”

“Delivery,” I say.

Her eyebrow arches.

“At this time of night?”

I lift a shoulder lazily.

“It’s a special delivery.”

Not waiting for what is sure to be a sarcastic reply, I hurry to the front door, drop the trash, and pull out my gun. Cautiously, I open the front door, scan the street, and find nothing of interest, except for a Bible and Samantha’s phone.

Unless there’s something hidden inside it, the Bible is a head scratcher, but I reach down and scoop it up, leaving the trash in its place. As I straighten, a note falls out from behind her phone.

Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.

“Subtle,” I mumble.

But as much as it burns, it’s the truth. Samantha’s already called me on it, so it’s a truth I need to face up to now I’m stuck here with her for the next few days.

I slide her phone into my pocket, leave the Bible on the coffee table, and head back into the bedroom. When I check on Samantha, she’s facing away from me and using the eye mask to block out the remaining light. Thankfully, she says nothing as I stretch out on the bed.

The day’s events play on a loop as my eyes adjust to the semidarkness. The phone Hightower left, the impulsive interview with a fame-hungry reporter, the gunmen who could have killed Samantha.

With a growl, I roll over onto my side, but thanks to my sidearm, I can’t get comfortable. I flip over onto my back again, close my eyes, and flex my muscles. But I still can’t seem to relax. There are too many possible outcomes. There are too many things that could go wrong. I’m placing my trust in people I barely know solely because, as a result of my interest in Samantha, I'd have died without two of their members.

I give up the pretense I’m going to sleep anytime soon. What I need is peace of mind.

Hauling myself off the bed, I wander back into the sitting room. Yawning, I pick up the Bible Silas sent over.

I flip through until I reach Proverbs and skim for something solid—something I can hang my thoughts on.

There.

In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps. —Proverbs 16:9

I stare at the words.

My plan had been simple: find Samantha and bring her in. Getting shot at—and saving her life—wasn’t part of it.

But maybe… it was part of His.

My grip tightens around the Bible.

Dad always said the answers were in the pages. But if this is the answer, I don’t get it.

I set the Bible down and pull out my phone. Can’t text Dad this late, so I go for the second-worst option—Google.

How does God’s providence work?

The top result loads with frustrating clarity:

God’s providence is the divine orchestration of every event in the universe, including suffering, evil, and chance, all working together for His ultimate plan and glory.

I frown. That doesn’t help. If anything, it raises more questions.

So, what—getting ambushed and nearly killed is divine orchestration? Samantha working with terrorists was ordained? Part of some glorious plan?

I lock the screen and set the phone down, unsettled. If this is providence… it sure doesn’t look like it from here.

I slide the phone into my pocket and look toward the open doorway. She’s quiet in the other room. Still breathing. Still here.

Whether I like it or not, our paths have crossed.

And it’s not an accident.

However I’m meant to figure it out, it won’t happen tonight. It’s late.

Groaning, I haul myself out of the chair, yawning so hard I almost miss the unmistakable sound of a woman screaming. Yanking my gun from my side, I burst into the room as adrenaline washes through me.

No one is inside the room apart from Samantha. Still in bed, eye mask askew, covers pushed down to the edge of the bed, and hands out as if warding off an invisible intruder.

Just a night terror. Brooke had a couple as a kid. Best thing to do is leave her to go back to sleep. Come morning, she won’t remember a thing. Brooke never did.

I lower my gun, holster it, and start to turn away… except my feet aren’t budging, and I can’t seem to tear my eyes off her. Her breaths are coming in so fast that she’s in danger of hyperventilating.

My toes inch closer as an overwhelming desire to reassure her she’s in no danger starts to propel me forward.

“Don’t touch me,”

she whispers.

I freeze. Is she talking to me?

“Just leave me alone,”

she mumbles.

The idea that she’s that afraid of me curls inside me like toxic smoke.

“Wake up. You’re just dreaming.”

No response. Her eyes are still closed, and she’s squirming as if she’s in pain.

I edge closer.

“Samantha, wake up.”

Her eyelids flicker, and she lets out a whimper that rips into my chest.

Not wanting to scare her, I open the bathroom door wider so more light spills into the room, then I perch on the edge of the bed. I reach out and gently tap her shoulder.

“Samantha. Wake up.”

Her eyes fly open, surprising me so much I instinctively shift my weapon so she can’t reach it.

She bolts upright, rips the eye mask off her face, and grabs my arms.

“Don’t let them hurt me,”

she chokes out.

I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“No one is going to hurt you. Not while you’re with me.”

And Heaven help me, I mean it.