The voice was right there, right in front of her. She opened her eyes. Everything was blurry, but she saw him. The son. He was tall, so very tall. He dressed well, had his sleeves rolled up. There was a grease mark on his white shirt. His dad stood behind him. Also very tall. Dressed in old jeans and a faded plaid shirt.
“We’re not going to hurt you.” The son squatted. “My name is John Honeycutt. This is my dad, George.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She used English, because she didn’t want these people to think she was an immigrant. That she needed to be deported. She wanted to be deported, she wanted to leave this country as soon as possible, but not without Ana. She couldn’t leave without her sister.
And she couldn’t leave without her baby.
“It’s okay,” John Honeycutt said.
“I’ll tell your mom to get a plate ready,” George said.
“No, I’ll go. Please, I don’t want any trouble.” Marisol sat up. Too quickly, because she felt dizzy and stumbled.
John reached out for her, but she pulled back and fell into the hay.
“What’s your name?”
She didn’t want to answer.
“You’re flushed, you have a fever. When have you last eaten?”
“I have food,” she said and glanced over at the bag that she’d been using as a pillow.
“John,” George said. The two men looked at each other and spoke without saying anything. The same way she and Ana could communicate.
“Please, I’ll leave, I want no trouble. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
“We can get you help.”
“No!” She didn’t want to shout at them, but they didn’t understand. There was no one to help. No one to trust. “I beg you, do not call the police. I—” What could she say? She couldn’t fight these men. She could barely speak. She was sick, she didn’t know what to do.
“All right,” John said, “I won’t call the police.”
She didn’t know if she could believe him.
“If you let me take you inside, give you some food and water, then you can leave in the morning.”
She glanced outside. It was dusk.
She nodded. “Can I—can I use a phone?”
“Of course you may.” He held out his hand to help her up.
She took it and winced. She was so sore, so shaky on her feet.
“What happened to you, girl?” George asked.
“Dad,” John said quietly.
“Marisol. My name is Marisol.” She looked down at her torn dress and the sweater she’d stolen from a car she’d passed near the church. She saw what they saw—the blood. So much blood.
“You need a doctor.”
“No. No. I’m okay.”
“Dad, go ahead and tell Mom we’re bringing Marisol in.”
George left. John helped her walk across the field to the house. She hadn’t realized when she arrived how close the house was. She’d come in the middle of the night … how long had she slept in the hay?
“I’m a teacher,” John said. “I teach math and science in town. I’m not going to hurt you, but you need help. If you want to talk, I’m a good listener. So are my parents. They’re good people. We won’t let anyone hurt you. Do you believe me?”
She nodded, surprised that she did believe him. No one had shown her such kindness in years. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaning on him, surprised she wasn’t more terrified. “I have someone to call. Someone who can help. Just—please don’t call the police. Please. My sister’s life depends on it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“She can stay with us indefinitely.” Sean Rogan looked at the time—already eight at night. “Are you leaving now?”
He glanced over at Nate Dunning, one of the agents in Lucy’s office, who had stopped writing his to-do list for the wedding and was listening to their conversation.
“Noah is wrapping things up with the deputy,” Lucy said. “Processing a motel room is next to impossible—I don’t think they’re going to get much from here. Siobhan has GPS on her equipment, and we tracked them. Destroyed. We have to come back tomorrow, though. I’ll find her a safer hotel to stay in—this motel is clean, but the security is nearly nonexistent.”
“Not surprised. I have a few ideas—I’ll work on them before you get here.”
“You’re wonderful.”
“I know.”
She laughed lightly. “I have to go—I’ll fill you in on the details when I get home. I love you.”
“Love you, princess.” He hung up and frowned.
“Trouble?” Nate asked.
“Maybe. Nothing they can’t handle. It’s just the case itself—possible human trafficking. Lucy and Noah think the bastards are selling babies.”
“That’s fucked.”
“You said it. Someone left a newborn at a church last week. It may have been a young woman Siobhan Walsh knows.”
“Isn’t she a reporter or something? The one grabbed in Santiago in June?”
“Photographer. And yes—she was used as bait for Kane.”