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“I don’t want to ruin the day.”

“There’ll be more of them.” She resists, so I narrow eyes on her. “I won’t break, if yer worried over me mental health. C’mon. Tell me.”

Her lips part, and she gives me this look like I’m three sheets to the wind.

I tap my temple.

“Fine. The truth isn’t pretty.”

“Yer preaching to the choir of no-goods. Go on.”

“I was living with a Syrian family in Aleppo when the Russian bombing campaign began. Word was that it’d be safe, only Taliban-occupied areas would be targeted. That there’d be time to evacuate if the strike-zones were broadened. But my information was wrong.”

My grip tightens on the fishing pole.

“It was a bright, sunny day. Blue skies. Quiet and tranquil. A day similar to today. The Taliban had retreated, leaving the city a few days earlier. We thought it was over. Everyone had come out of hiding. A sense of hopefulness filled the air. That ended when we saw airplanes on the horizon.”

She peers up at the cloudless sky.

But I watch her closely, and the myriad emotions playing out across her face. Pain. Anguish. Heartbreak.

“Christiana and I were playing outside. I grabbed her hand and we ran toward the shelter. But nowhere was safe, there was nowhere to hide. Within thirty minutes, the neighborhood was flattened.”

I curse beneath my breath.

“There was an announcement to evacuate. That more strikes were coming. Back at the apartment, my host family was buried in rubble. I pulled brick by brick off them except it was too late, though. I could do nothing but cover their bodies with blankets before we left.” She pauses to suck in a breath. I want to toss down my pole and wrap her in my arms. Wisely, I give her space and what she really needs, someone to listen.

“I took Christiana with me and followed the progression of people fleeing the city and headed toward the Mediterranean Sea. She had a concussion and faded in and out consciousness, cradled in my arms throughout the entire walk. No doctors or medical services were available because of the overwhelming number of injured victims.”

Christ’s sake. Am I hearing her right? She carried a little girl from Aleppo to the Mediterranean? How many miles is that? A hundred?

“Several journalists were on the beach and covered the fleeing refugees. Under different circumstances, I would have been one of them.” She gives a shallow, self-depreciating laugh. “They brought a field doctor over to where we were huddled. But, it was too late. She died in my arms while everyone looked on. One of them recorded it, thinking the story of a western woman caring for a dying Syrian child would resonate back home. He was right, too. It would have. Airing the tragedy along with my personal account of events might have been dramatic enough to attract the western networks and bring some coverage to the travesty unfolding abroad.”

For the first time in my life, I feel feckin’ helpless. What can I say? What can I do to ease her pain? How in God’s name can a murderous devil like me comfort a saint like her? I will myself into motion. Standing and stepping over rocks then settling down beside her, wrapping my free arm around her shoulders and tucking her into me.

I want to shelter her.

I want to protect her from everything ugly.

But who’ll shelter and protect her from me?

She turns teary eyes to me. “I bought the footage from him so he couldn’t sell it. No matter how disgusted I was by the lack of genuine coverage back home, I couldn’t exploit her death for a story. Her life must mean more than profit. So, you see, our investigation isn’t about me advancing my career. If I build a name for myself, not only will I be exposing criminals like O’Brien, but I’ll be in a better position to sell my documentary. Christiana and her family deserve to be seen as human beings, not nameless victims of war.”

I contemplate snapping the fishing pole in half.

Shite.

Shite.

Motherfeckin’ shite.

Because it’s me being snapped in two. Broken into two, exposed and suspended in air.

What in God’s name do I do?

“This isn’t about me advancing my career,” she says.It’s more, so much bleedin’ more. And I’m going to ruin it all.

“I warned you it wasn’t pretty. Was it too much?”