After he left, she closed the door as if that would be a barrier to him and all the confusing thoughts and feelings crashing through her in wave after wave.
Maybe her father could do something to help him? Maybe he could have a reduced sentence? He’d done nothing short of save her life by removing her from those other men. He deserved no less.
Rubbing a hand against her forehead, her mind tracked over the arguments she could present to her father.
Through the door she could hear the sound of running water as he turned on the kitchen faucet. Then another sound emerged. A steady trilling ring.
Someone was calling him on his burner phone. Her pulse kicked to life. No one had called him since they arrived here. The ringing stopped and she knew he had answered. His deep voice rumbled across the air but too far away for her to catch more than a word or two.
She pressed her ear closer to the door, her breath catching when she thought she heard her name.
It was about her. If someone were calling him, of course it was probably about her. Maybe it was this Sullivan person arranging the details of her release. Her heart jumped.
Unable to resist, she slowly turned the knob, easing the door open. She stepped out, her bare feet treading silently across the wood flooring. He stood in the kitchen in front of the sink, his broad back to her. His words were clearly audible and she froze, not wanting to alert him to her presence. He was quiet at the moment, evidently listening to the voice on the end of the line.
He sighed and ran a hand over the back of his head. She tensed, expecting him to turn around, but he didn’t. Not yet.
“I have,” he said after a while. Then, he added, “Yes. I am. Tell me what you want . . .”
A pause fell.
“What?” he asked. “I thought you wanted to draw this out and really torture the president. Do you think that’s such a good idea?” A longer silence fell. From where she stood, she watched the set to his shoulders grow rigid. Then he replied in a voice that sounded flat and dutiful, like a soldier responding to his superior. “No. That’s not what I think.” A pause, then: “I’ll do it. I’ll kill her. Consider it done.”
Her stomach bottomed out. She pressed a hand to her roiling belly, afraid she was about to be sick. She’d trusted him.
She’d been wrong. About him. About everything. So wrong.
And she would pay for it with her life.