Page 10 of Saving Jennifer
Jennifer pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to block the memory. She’d been such a fool. Growing up with a French mother who spoke little of her brief affair to Muhammed Amir, Jennifer had been eager to connect with her half-brother when he’d reached out. Hungry for family, flattered by his interest in her work, grateful for the allowance he arranged that helped support her struggling design business and her ailing mother.
All lies.
Manipulations to use her as an unwitting spy in his obsessive hunt for Salem and the child he viewed as his property, not his responsibility.
The house creaked, and Jennifer froze, straining to hear any sound that might indicate danger, or Noah’s return. Minutes stretched like hours in the silent room. She looked at the monitors, the communication equipment, but it was no solace. Dusk was fast approaching, and their screens had switched to night vision mode. She wrapped her arms across her chest, warding off the chill that spread through her. Would this nightmare ever end?
She found herself reaching for her sketchbook—her lifeline in moments of anxiety—only to remember it was still packed in her bag in the bedroom. When three soft knocks finally sounded on the door, Jennifer nearly collapsed with relief.
“It’s clear,” Noah said when she opened it. “False alarm. Just a couple of teenagers cutting through yards.”
Jennifer sagged against the doorframe. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate jumping at shadows. Being afraid all the time.”
Noah’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes held understanding. “I know.”
“Do you?” she challenged, sudden anger flaring. “Do you know what it’s like to discover everything you believed was a lie? To find out you were nothing but a tool to hurt innocent people? To lose everything you built because you were stupid enough to trust the wrong person?”
The words hung between them, raw and accusing. Jennifer immediately regretted them—Noah wasn’t responsible for her situation—but couldn’t seem to take them back.
Instead of retreating, Noah stepped closer.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I do know. Different circumstances, but…yes.”
The quiet certainty in his voice doused her anger, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That wasn’t fair.”
“Life rarely is,” he replied, then gestured toward the main part of the house. “Come on. We need to pack. Gator wants us ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
As they walked back through the shotgun-style house, Jennifer found herself studying the straight line of Noah’s shoulders, the careful way he moved, always positioning himself between her and potential danger. For the last few days, she’d tried to maintain emotional distance, telling herself he was just doing his job, that any kindness was professional courtesy.
But in that moment of raw honesty, something had shifted.
In the bedroom, Noah handed her a small duffel bag. “Only essentials. Remember, Gator says the French Quarter apartment is tight.”
Jennifer nodded, mechanically beginning to sort through her meager possessions. After a lifetime of accumulating beautiful things—art, fashion, memories—it felt strange how little that mattered now. She thought about all the things she’d had in her Paris apartment. Because of her job as an interior designer, she had the finest furnishings, original artwork from local artisans. Chanel bags. Lalique crystal. Yet, while she’d loved the cutting-edge style of her flat, it had been a showroom, not a home.
“Will it be over after the trial?” she asked, not looking up from her task. “Do you think they’ll stop coming after me?”
Noah paused in his own packing. “Sayifa and Rashid will likely get long sentences. But the Amir family has extensive connections, and they are a large family. After Tarik, Abdullah was the oldest, the family’s head, their leader. You know Abdullah was against the family’s plan to kidnap Tarik’s daughter and ended up drugged and institutionalized by his mother. The next eldest son, Rashid, instituted the child custody case that started this whole mess. My guess is when—not if—they are convicted, you may need to try and make some kind of peace with Abdullah if you want to end this feud.”
“That’s not reassuring,” Jennifer said with a brittle laugh.
“False reassurances won’t do you any good and won’t keep you alive,” Noah replied, his tone gentle despite the harsh reality of his words. “But I can promise you this; as long as I’m still standing, no one will get to you.”
Jennifer looked up, caught by the intensity in his voice. “And after? When your job is done?”
Their eyes locked across the room, and for a moment, the professional barriers between them seemed as fragile as rice paper. Something unspoken passed between them—possibility, perhaps. Or recognition.
“Let’s get you through the next few days and get you to the courthouse so you can testify. Then Carpenter Security will take over, make sure you’re safe,” Noah said finally, breaking the tension. “After that, we can figure out what comes next.”
Jennifer nodded slowly, wondering if Noah was experiencing the same uncertainty, the same unexpected attraction that had kept her awake throughout the night. But she couldn’t think about that now. Was she attracted to him—yes. Was she wondering about him, about what kind of man he was beneath the gruff exterior—yes. This unexpected pull toward the man watching over her couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Returning to her packing, she carefully placed her sketchbooks and portfolio in her bag and found herself wondering if there might be an “after” that included them both—not as protector and witness, but as two people finding their way back from betrayal.
The thought should have terrified her. Trust had nearly destroyed her once already. Yet as she watched Noah moving efficiently around the room, checking windows and sightlines even as he packed, Jennifer felt something she hadn’t experienced in months.
Hope.
Small and fragile as a seedling, but undeniably present.