“Oh my God! What does that mean?”
I spun at the sound of Sara’s voice. Her hair was wet, and her complexion matched the tips of our fingers.
“Agent, it’s time to stop this,” Special Agent Adler said.
I nodded, relief flooding my synapses.
“What?” Sara came to the bed and sat beside me. “What does that mean? Does Father Gabriel know what I did, that I left?”
“Yes, sir,” I said into the phone, while turning toward Sara and shrugging.
“You can’t just shrug. If I go back, will it give you more time?”
“Agent,” Special Agent Adler said in my ear, “I’m assuming that’s Miss Montgomery that I hear?”
No, it’s Sara Adams.
That was what I wanted to say, but unlike Stella, I had the ability to bite my tongue. “Yes, sir, it is. I didn’t know she was listening.” My eyes narrowed her way, but instead of Sara’s demure response, Stella gave me a close-lipped fuck you smile as she cocked her head to the side.
“Give her the phone.”
“Sir?”
“I know you’ve been living in the dark ages when it comes to men and women, but give her the damn phone. I want to hear her response, from her.”
My teeth clenched as I covered the mouthpiece and turned toward Sara. “This is my handler. You may call him Special Agent. The less you know the better. I already told him your answer. It’s over. You’re going into witness protection.”
She reached for the phone.
“Sara,” I said, in my customary warning.
Her brows rose.
“Don’t—”
Taking the phone from my grasp, in a stage whisper she quipped, “Embarrass you? Oh, I wouldn’t fucking dream of it.” Placing the phone to her ear, Sara said, “Hello, Special Agent, this is Sara . . . I’m sorry, Stella Montgomery.”
A smile crept over her lips as she stood and walked farther away. “Thank you . . . I’m all right.” She looked my way. “I’d like to say it’s the first time I’ve ever been struck, but I can’t.”
Holy fuck!
“Yes, he told me . . .” She went on, “Yes, I do understand . . . Sir, may I ask, if I change my mind . . .” Again she looked toward me. “If I change my mind, would that give the bureau more time to arrange the raids in a way that may eliminate the loss of life? . . . That’s what Jacob/Jacoby said, sir . . . I do . . . I am . . . One more request, if I may . . . If something were to happen to me before we get out of The Light, would the FBI please contact my parents and those of Mindy Rosemont? . . . Yes, sir, she is . . . Yes, I’ve seen her . . . And a Detroit detective, Dylan Richards.”
She shrugged as she wrapped one arm around her midsection. “We were dating. He used to say I should join the DPD. Maybe he’d understand what happened if he knew I was working with the FBI . . . I understand.” She nodded. “Nothing until . . . Yes, sir. I hope you don’t either . . . Yes, I’ll give the phone back to him. Thank you, I believe it’s an honor . . . Good-bye.”
She handed the phone back to me. “Here, he needs to work out the details with you. We’re heading back immediately.”
What the fuck just happened?
“Sir?” I asked.
“If this weren’t so damn serious and dangerous, I’d like to hear how you managed to keep that woman oppressed in The Light. She seems very strong-willed.”
“You have no idea.”
CHAPTER 15
Stella/Sara
Scenes of normal life passed by the windows of Jacob’s borrowed truck. Though it was still early, not even five in the morning, this far north the sun was shining, illuminating the empty streets and giving me a glimpse of what life could be. Sighing, I took another bite of the breakfast bar Jacob had gotten for me from a convenience mart. If it weren’t for the bottle of water, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to swallow. I remembered Bernard saying that I ate cardboard for breakfast. I’d never thought I did, until now.
From my peripheral vision, I watched as Jacob took the last few bites of his breakfast sandwich and thought how strange it was that even my tastes were different now than they’d been as Stella. He’d offered to buy me something from the fast-food restaurant for breakfast, but after what we’d eaten late last night, I hadn’t thought I could stomach more grease.
“How’s your sandwich?” I asked, needing to hear his voice.
Swallowing a drink of his coffee, he replied, “Not as good as your cooking.”
“Good.”
“How’s your”—he nodded toward my remaining bar—“whatever that is?”
I shrugged. “I’d rather have my cooking too. Which is hilarious, if you knew how I, or Stella, used to cook.”
“Sara, no more Stella. It’s too big of a risk.”
I nodded, heeding his warning—more than resenting it.
“Coffee?” he asked, holding his cup for me.
I shook my head. “No, thank you.” He’d offered earlier to get me my own cup, but the idea of drinking the caffeine still ate at my conscience.