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Sister Mary Isabelle gave another snort. “He can’t live with his own share of fault in getting his son killed, so he needs someone else to dump it on.”
Unable to sit still, Rachel began to pace, steps jerky and uneven, one hand on her tight belly. “I’m sure he sees this baby as his second chance. It’s Nicky’s child. His own flesh and blood. Carlos can’t wait to get his hands on it.” She suddenly had to hold on to the edge of the tall dresser as fear weakened her knees. “Izzy,” she whispered, “I think he plans to take my baby away from me the moment he’s born. That’s probably when he’ll do it, you know—kill me. While I’m out of it—helpless. He’ll figure out a way to make it seem like complications of delivery, or something. Not that he’d do it himself, of course—he’d probably let Georg or Stan have the privilege of smothering me with a pillow. They’d enjoy—”
She was enveloped in the crisp folds of Sister Mary Isabelle’s habit. It smelled of soap and starch, and an arm was firm and strong around her middle.
Through the rushing sound in her ears she heard Sister Mary Isabelle’s voice, calm and firm—her physician’s voice. “Hush. That’s not going to happen. And right now you are going to stop this drama. The last thing you or your baby needs is for you to panic.”
Knowing she was right didn’t help much. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Rachel whispered as she allowed herself to be settled on the edge of the bed. “They watch me every second, Izzy. I feel so…trapped. It’s gotten much worse since I got the letter….”
Sister Mary Isabelle straightened, instantly alert. “What letter?”
Rachel wiped her eyes. “It came two days ago. By special courier—I had to sign for it personally, with my I.D. Carlos wasn’t here, otherwise I doubt I would ever have gotten it. Even then, Carlos’s watchdogs wanted to take it away from me, but I opened it and read it with the courier standing right there. There wasn’t much they could do about it, short of killing both of us on the spot.” She paused to gulp back a laugh she was aware could easily spiral into hysteria. “I’m sure they would have enjoyed that, too, but it would have been a little hard to cover up.”
“The letter?” Sister Mary Isabelle prompted.
Rachel caught a quick, shallow breath; these days deeper ones were becoming harder to manage. “Yes. It was from—you’re not going to believe this, Izzy—my grandfather.”
“Your—oh, you mean the eccentric billionaire? The one who—”
“—abandoned my grandmother and didn’t even come to the memorial service when my dad—his own son—was killed? And never once tried to get in touch with me after Grandmother found me in that Manila orphanage and went through all kinds of hell to bring me to America? Yeah, that grandfather. Sam Malone. He wrote to me, can you believe it?”
“What on earth did he want?” Sister Mary Isabelle’s eyes were shining now with interest. “I didn’t know he was still alive. He must be…how old?”
“Very old. I’m not sure exactly, but in his nineties, I think. Maybe even a hundred. I don’t know what he wants, to tell you the truth. Something about an inheritance—which I certainly don’t want. Seriously. I don’t want a thing from that man.” Rachel curved her hand over her lower abdomen and the envelope affixed there with surgical tape gave a faint crackle. She felt the baby roil as if in response. Her brief flare of anger had already faded, leaving her once more feeling frightened and vulnerable.
So, she’d managed to protect the letter, big deal. Now what? She’d never felt so helpless.
She took another shallow breath. “I don’t want anything from Sam Malone—not for me. But maybe it’s—you know…the fact that it came just now, when I’ve been wondering how in the world I can get away from here…I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s not a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence. Sometimes God works in mysterious ways,” Sister Mary Isabelle said serenely. Then, with her customary practicality: “What did you do with the letter? Did Carlos take it?”
Rachel shook her head and smiled a fierce, defiant smile. “It’s here,” she whispered, rubbing her belly. “The letter. I taped it to my stomach.” Sister Mary Isabelle gave a whoop of laughter, and Rachel gulped down a giggle. “Yes, and when Carlos demanded that I turn it over to him, I told him I’d hidden it where he’d never find it.” She sniffed. “Not even Carlos would dare to violate me there.”
“Clever girl. Good for you.” Sister Mary Isabelle immediately grew somber again. Her always expressive eyes darkened with sorrow as she lifted one hand and cupped Rachel’s bruised cheek. “But he did lay a hand on you. Was that when he hit you?”
Rachel nodded, remembering pain and outrage. And fury. “When I told him I’d hidden the letter where he’d never find it. It was out of sheer frustration, I think.” Her lips tightened bitterly. “He’s been so careful up till now.”
Sister Mary Isabelle suddenly leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “Are there surveillance cameras in this room?”
The question didn’t surprise Rachel; it was one she’d asked herself often enough. She shook her head and whispered back, “I don’t think so. I’ve looked.”
“What about bugs?”
She gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t know why Carlos would bother with bugs when I don’t have access to phone, internet or, with the exception of yourself, visitors. But when I want to be sure of at least some privacy…” She took two steps toward the door and reached for the light switch. “There,” she whispered as the room was plunged into darkness. She punched a button on the clock radio on her bedside table and a Bruce Springsteen song filled the silence. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”
“Good for you.” Sister Mary Isabelle’s chuckle came from the shadows. “I’ve come to spring you. It’s time you got yourself and that baby of yours out of this Hell you’re in—and being Roman Catholic, I do not use that term lightly.”
At the first words, Rachel had smothered an involuntary cry with her fingertips. Now her gaze jerked to the windows, where, as the room behind her darkened, the panorama of the lights of Los Angeles had come into view. The world out there…how many times had she gazed at that incredible vista, stretching from the mountains to the sea, and felt like an animal in a cage. Trapped.
“How?” she whispered. “Can you work miracles?”
“I’m a sister, not a saint.” Izzy sounded amused.
In the near darkness, the deeper shadow that was Sister Mary Isabelle moved and rustled mysteriously. Rachel waited in suspense, breath held. Then warm hands clutched her cold ones, and something—a bundle of fabric that smelled of soap and starch—was thrust into her arms.
“What—”
“Shush—I told you I’d explain the habit. It’s for you, of course. I’m wearing my regular clothes underneath. Here,” she added, when Rachel stood motionless, stunned, “I’ll help you put it on.”
Sister Mary Isabelle explained in a whisper as her hands turned and tugged Rachel this way and that. “Leave your own clothes on, of course. So you can ditch the habit as soon as you’re safely away from the compound. Good thing I’m…shall we say, generously built, hmm? You’d be way too tiny and this would be a tent on you under normal circumstances, but with that nine-month baby bump, plus the clothes you’re wearing—there, how does that feel?”
“Izzy, I—”
“Oops—hold still—these wimples are a bit tricky… Okay. I think that’s got it. Now listen carefully. You’re going to have to keep your head down, okay? I doubt anybody is going to look past the habit, anyway, but just to be on the safe side. Take my car—it’s out there in the driveway beside the fountain—the white Toyota. The keys are in it. Oh, and I—ahem—took the liberty of borrowing the plates from Father Francis’s secretary’s car. She took the train down to San Diego for a conference and won’t be needing them for a few days. I really hope she doesn’t mind contributing to the cause….” Having finished adjusting the disguise to her liking, she took Rachel firmly by the arms and gave her a small shake. “Now. Listen carefully, dear. You’ll need to stop as soon as you’re safely away and put the right plates back on—they’re in the trunk—so you don’t get stopped for having the wrong ones, okay?”
A dozen questions surged through Rachel’s mind. She managed to verbalize the most urgent. “But Izzy, what about you? How will you—I can’t think what Carlos will do when he—”
Strong hands gripped hers. “Nothing is going to happen to me. Carlos may be a ruthless criminal, a mob boss, but he’s also a devout Catholic—even he won’t dare to harm a nun. Or sister.” Rachel could hear the smile in her voice. “I intend to stay right here in the dark for as long as it takes someone to get suspicious and come to check on you. The longer the better, obviously, so you’ll get a good head start. If all goes well, you should be able to disappear before anyone here knows you’re gone. Then, you can look up that grandfather of yours. If you want to, of course. If he can’t protect you, maybe he can at least provide you with the money to start a new life somewhere, with a new identity.”
“My own private witness protection program,” Rachel said on a small note of sobbing laughter. “Izzy, I don’t know what to say. How can I ever thank you?”
“Thank me by having and raising a happy, healthy baby, somewhere away from all this violence and danger, that’s how. And do not try to get in touch with me, understand? Who knows what resources Carlos Delacorte has at his disposal. Now go, before—oh, wait. Forgot the most important thing.” There was a faint whisper of sound, and Sister Mary Isabelle placed something in Rachel’s hands. She closed Rachel’s hands around the object, folded within her own.
“Your rosary,” Rachel whispered. “Izzy, I can’t. Really.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Besides, I don’t think I’ve prayed since high school.”
“Keep it anyway,” Sister Mary Isabelle said firmly. “You never know when the mood might strike you. And just because you’ve forgotten how to pray doesn’t mean God’s forgotten how to listen. Speaking of which…” There was a moment of silence, followed by a whispered, “Amen…” and the familiar little flurry of movement that was Sister Mary Isabelle crossing herself. Then the strong, capable hands—physician’s hands—took hers once more.
“Now—remember. No driver’s license, no identification, no credit cards. Right? Do you have any money? Cash?” Rachel shook her head. “Well, never mind—I left some for you in the car. Not much, but it should get you to your grandfather. No cell phone—oh, that’s right, you don’t have one. Just as well. If television cop shows are right, they could probably track you that way. So—have I forgotten anything?”
“I can’t imagine what,” Rachel said with a laugh, and added in a shaky whisper, “Izzy, what if I—”
“You’re going to be fine.” The fabric of the habit rustled as Sister Mary Isabelle pulled her close in a quick, hard hug. “Now go.” And after a pause, she added a fervent, “Vaya con Dios.”
Go with God. If only I believed that, Rachel thought.
The reality was, it was all up to her now. Izzy had given her the chance she needed, but finally, she would have to do what was necessary to save herself and her baby.
She took one last breath, the deepest she could manage, and whispered, “’Bye, Izzy. Thank you.” Then she opened the door and slipped into the hallway.
After the darkness, the indirect lighting in the hallway, subdued as it was, struck her like a spotlight; she almost expected to hear sirens blaring and steel doors clanging shut. Her heart thumped so hard it hurt her chest as she hurried toward the stairs. Remembering to keep her face lowered, she took courage from the knowledge that it would be shielded from the watchful eyes of the security cameras by the starched wings of the wimple.
A hard grip on the banister didn’t entirely prevent her hand from shaking, and she found herself clutching the rosary in her other hand, thrust deep in the folds of the habit. She’d meant what she’d told Izzy, about not knowing any longer how to pray, and in fact she didn’t know if she even believed in such things now. But somehow, as the rosary beads pressed hard into her flesh, she felt a sense of purpose come over her. Purpose, resolve, strength—a surge of power that seemed to rise from some place deep within her. Maternal instinct of some sort, probably. The absolute certainty that she would do whatever it took to protect the tiny life nestled beneath her heart.
A life that was becoming increasingly impatient with its confinement, it seemed. Halfway down the curving staircase she had to pause for a moment to wait for the steel band that had tightened around her belly to relax. Braxton Hicks contractions, she told herself. Although this was the strongest she’d felt yet, she knew they were still nothing to worry about.
The tightening eased, and she continued down the stairs, head bowed. The security guards in the cavernous entry gave her a lazy glance when she stepped onto the quarry tile floor. Their eyes were flat and expressionless, although they both nodded with a modicum of respect—the habit, again. As she swept past them, habit swishing over the baked adobe, one of the guards even stepped ahead of her to open the heavy, ornately carved doors. Then he stood and watched her descend the steps at the slow and stately pace befitting a nun in full habit—or a woman in her ninth month of pregnancy. Rachel could feel those hard, cold eyes on her as she crossed the brick-paved courtyard, but her newfound courage kept her from giving in to the urge to look back or hurry her steps.
She found that she felt both shielded and bolstered by the voluminous folds of the habit, as if it was a suit of armor rather than mere cloth. The wimple that hid her face from the eagle eyes of the security guards and cameras also kept her focused, her own eyes firmly concentrated on her immediate goal: Walk to the car…don’t hurry…open the door…ease in behind the wheel…not too tight a fit, thank God Izzy’s bigger than I am…keys in ignition…turn on…put car in gear…drive away…don’t hurry…don’t hurry…slowly…slowly.
The big iron gates slid open as she approached…then silently closed behind her. At the bottom of the drive she paused, left-turn blinker off-sync with the frantic rhythm of her pounding heart. She made the turn and rolled slowly down the curving street, every part of her wanting to step on the accelerator and screech away at all possible speed. But she forced herself to go slowly…slowly. She rounded the first bend, and the red tile roofs of the Delacorte compound were now hidden from her view. She let out her breath in a gust, and wondered how long she’d been holding it.
For the moment, yes, she was free. But she had a long way to go before she—and her baby—would be safe.
Her game plan was simple. She would head east on the interstate as fast as traffic and the law allowed, and go as far as roughly half of the almost-full tank of gas in Izzy’s car would take her. After that, she would get off the main roads, buy herself some food and as much gasoline as the money Izzy had left her would buy, and cut back north and west across the desert to the remote southern Sierra Valley where her grandfather’s ranch was. She would avoid places with people, so as to leave as few witnesses as possible. She would not risk going to the police or any other public agency for help; she didn’t know how far the Delacorte family’s influence might reach. Best to stay anonymous. Play it safe. Trust no one.
Before getting on the freeway, though, mindful of Izzy’s instructions, she drove to a shopping center she remembered from the days when she was free to come and go as she pleased, and drove into the center’s underground parking structure. She found a remote and relatively unused level and parked in the shadow of a support pillar. She took off the habit—with regret; she’d liked the feeling of safety it had given her—and put it in the trunk of the car. It had occurred to her that leaving it might serve as a marker, a signpost for those who might be trying to track her down, like a footprint or a broken twig. Better to leave no traces of herself behind.
She found the license plates Izzy had left in the trunk, along with a screwdriver, and was pleased to note as she took the borrowed plates off and put the correct ones on that her hands didn’t shake. She no longer felt terrified. Keyed up, excited, euphoric almost, but not afraid. That alone was a wonderful and amazing thing. She’d been afraid for so long.
Back on the freeway, which was moving relatively swiftly at that time of evening, she opened her window, shook her hair free of the elastic band that had held it back from her face and reveled in the sensation of the cool spring wind lifting strands off her shoulders, tickling her ears and temples.
This is what freedom feels like.
But then a pair of headlights came zooming up behind her and, as her heart leaped into her throat, whipped impatiently around her on the left and sped away in the fast lane. After that, heart hammering, she kept checking her rearview mirrors even though the anonymous headlights she saw reflected there had nothing to tell her.
Just past the Ontario Airport she turned off onto Interstate 15, heading northeast toward Las Vegas. Several times already the almost constant pressure on her bladder had forced her off the freeway in search of a public restroom, and during one of these pit stops she had bought a map. She had studied it while munching cheese-flavored popcorn and bottled water from the rest stop’s vending machines, and had plotted what she thought seemed like the best route—meaning the most devious, the least likely. Just past the town of Barstow where I-15 intersected with I-40 she had discovered a numbered highway that seemed to run in a reasonably straight line northward to Death Valley. Perfect, she thought. Who would ever think to look for her in Death Valley?
Having settled on her travel route, Rachel still had decisions to make. Looking at the map, the road she’d chosen, though a numbered state route and therefore probably fairly well maintained, seemed lonely and remote, and she wasn’t quite brave enough—or stupid enough—to chance it alone at night. Neither would she feel safe in a motel anywhere in a major crossroads like Barstow, which would be the obvious place for Carlos to look for her. Even a maintained rest stop seemed too exposed, too risky.
Maybe she was being overly paranoid, but she’d learned a lot about the Delacorte family in the two years she’d been a part of it, and she wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating its resources. Not when her life and the future of her unborn child depended on it.
So, after making one last bathroom stop and replenishing her supply of snacks and drinking water, she pulled off onto a minor paved road leading into the desert. The pavement fizzled out after only a quarter of a mile or so, but since she could no longer see the lights of traffic on the interstate, she felt it would be a reasonably safe place to spend what was left of the night. Not that she expected to sleep; the night was chilly, the baby was restless and her back ached. But she crawled into the backseat anyway, and curled up on her side with her head pillowed on one folded arm, the other hand resting on her swollen belly. She closed her eyes, and within minutes, as they so often did, images of Nicky came to fill the blank screen of her mind.
Happy images, at first—memories of when they’d first met, on the grounds of UCLA. She’d been premed, and Nicky—well, who knew what his major was? Undeclared, probably, but he’d been taking a few classes she’d shared, just to see, he’d told her, if medicine held any interest for him. She remembered his smile, the sparkle of mischief in his beautiful dark eyes. She’d led a protected life up to that point, and the aura of danger that seemed to surround him had been…exciting.
His face filled her mind now, and she braced for the pain. Pushed against it, like worrying a sore tooth with her tongue. The memory came less easily now, six months after his death, and she felt a brief surge of panic when she couldn’t seem to find it at first. Then it swept over her and she pressed her hand against the spot in the middle of her chest where the pain was sharpest. Pressed against it and gasped in sharp breaths, fighting it back. She both welcomed and dreaded the pain, knowing that when the day came she could no longer summon it, Nicky would be truly, finally gone.
But for now…the pain seemed familiar, almost comforting. She let it settle over her and the tears ooze from beneath her lashes and trickle in cool trails down the side of her face and into her hair while memories, images played through her head. Happy memories, these were…the two of them together at the beach, on the sailboat in Newport, skiing in Park City, riding down Pacific Coast Highway in Nicky’s Porsche with the top down and the wind blowing through her hair. Laughing. Making love in all sorts of places, Nicky smiling down into her eyes while their bodies moved together in lovely harmony. Telling him she was pregnant, hearing the delighted whoop of his laughter, watching his eyes dance with almost childlike joy.
Then…they were dancing together, swaying to the music of old-fashioned bands, holding hands across a table lit by candlelight, and Nicky was placing the ring on her finger. Now…their wedding day, a blur of people and flowers and champagne, and Nicky’s family—Carlos had scared her a little even then, but Nicky had told her they wouldn’t have to be a part of the Delacorte organization, they would have their own lives, raise their children the way they wanted to.
And she had believed him then.
More music…more dancing…but the mood had darkened. She didn’t know what it was, but something was wrong. Nicky was different. She didn’t know why, but she felt…afraid.
We’re dancing, Nicky and I…and suddenly we’re not dancing, but running, running, and Nicky has hold of my hand and I’m running as fast as I can trying to keep up with him. Somehow we’re not in a ballroom anymore, but in an alley, and Nicky pushes me down behind a trash bin. I hear the roar of car engines, the chirp of sirens and then the world explodes in gunfire. Funny—I’ve never heard gunfire before, but I know instantly what it is. Nicky calls out to me, calls my name. I look over at him and I see blood. It’s everywhere, on his clothes and on my hands. His eyes are open, looking at me, and they aren’t sparkling, laughing, gleaming with mischief. They look so frightened. Terrified. And then…there is nothing.
Someone grabs me, pulls me, half carries me, pushes me into a car and everything is chaos. But I remember the guns, and the smell of blood and gasoline and smoke, and I remember the bodies lying in the wet and dirt of the alley. I remember…I remember.
Chapter 2
She woke up, struggled to sit up in the cramped confines of the car. Her heart was hammering, her body stiff and aching in the early morning chill. For a moment she was unable to grasp where she was. The light outside the car windows was the cold gray light of dawn, not the glaring, pulsing hellish kaleidoscope of colors, of nighttime and police lights and spotlights. The vista beyond the windows was barren, empty, a landscape of pastels dotted with dark splotches and freckles of lava rock, not a canyon of steel and concrete and oily black pavement glistening with rain and blood.
The only thing left from her nightmare was the fear. The sense of danger and doom.
The baby stirred beneath her ribs. And she remembered.
Izzy. Izzy came in her habit. This is Izzy’s car. I’m driving Izzy’s car, and I’m free of the Delacortes at last. Free!
Yes, she was free, but alone out in the middle of nowhere. She still had to get to someone who could help her, someone she could trust. She had to find a safe place, which meant a place where Carlos would never find her. If there is such a place.
She ran her hand under her belly, and the letter she’d taped there crackled faintly. Sam Malone’s letter. Would the grandfather she’d never known, the grandfather who had never acknowledged her or lifted a finger or spent a dime to help her or her grandmother, would such a man be able to help her now? Was he even alive? If he was, as distasteful as it was to her to have to ask for help, it seemed her only choice. She would go to the place, this place called June Canyon Ranch, and after that…well, she would have to wait and see.
Meanwhile, the pressure on her bladder was intense, and she was a long way from any public restroom. She climbed stiffly out of the car and relieved herself, as awkward and embarrassing as that process was, then stretched her legs by walking gingerly around the car several times. Her back ached terribly, but she supposed that was to be expected after spending a night in the backseat of a Toyota, nine months pregnant.
After a breakfast of bottled water and a package of bite-sized chocolate chip cookies that did little to calm her hunger pangs, Rachel consulted her map once more, then eased herself behind the wheel. She started up the car, managed to get it turned around without getting stuck in the soft sand and headed back to the interstate. Backtracking toward Barstow, she found the exit she wanted, the one for the numbered state route that ran north toward Death Valley. Exhilaration filled her as she made the turn, and saw the ribbon of asphalt stretching out into the lava-rock-studded hills. As the sun rose she saw that the hills weren’t barren at all, but tinged a lovely shade of green and splashed here and there with the vibrant yellows and purples and oranges of desert spring wildflowers.
Oh, but it felt good, so good to be free.
She drove fast—maybe too fast—and met a few cars at first, probably coming from one of the tiny dots she’d seen on the map, settlements too small to be called towns. At this hour they’d be heading into Barstow to school or work, she guessed. Then the sun rose and there were fewer cars. The miles sped by and the mountains seemed no closer. She hadn’t expected such distances between signs of civilization.
Though the desert seemed endless, it wasn’t empty and parched as she’d expected. The landscape alternated between plains where wildflowers made a solid yellow carpet between clumps of sagebrush and those greenish rock-strew hills. The road ran straight across the plains and wound through some hills, then seemed to follow a dry wash, or ravine. There were no other cars now. Rachel was alone, just her and the empty ribbon of highway stretching out to where the pale blue sky met the pastel-colored earth.
She hadn’t expected it to be so beautiful. There—was that a patch of poppies blooming over on the hillside?
She glanced back at the road ahead—which suddenly wasn’t empty anymore. Incredibly, there was a dog—or, good Lord, could it be a coyote?—smack in the middle of the road. Trotting down the road as if he had the right-of-way—which, Rachel supposed, he did, really.
She had already jerked the wheel to the right, reflexively. Now, realizing she was about to drive into the sand and sagebrush, she overcorrected to the left. The next thing she knew, the little Toyota was careening wildly through the brush and cactus, and she was hanging on to the steering wheel, frozen in fear.
The brake! Step on the brake!
She did, but too late. The Toyota had enough momentum to continue up an embankment before toppling slowly down…down…to rest with a crunch, nose-first in the soft sand at the bottom of the dry wash.
For a few moments Rachel sat absolutely still. Stunned. Then the first coherent thought came: My baby!
Terrified, she held her breath and took stock. Okay. Nothing hurts. Besides my back, anyway.
Nothing seemed amiss. In fact, thanks to that last-minute stomp on the brake pedal, she’d evidently landed in the wash with so little impact the air bag hadn’t even deployed. And her seat belt had kept her belly from hitting the steering wheel. Still, she was pressed up against it. Which couldn’t be good.
She opened the door—which required little effort, thanks to the angle of the car—released the seat belt and half slid, half fell onto the steeply sloping bank of the ravine. She pulled up her feet and sat there braced and hugging herself, waiting until she felt her legs were steady enough to hold her.
Stupid. How could I have been so careless? Stupid, stupid!
What now?
She’d never be able to get the car out of the ravine without a tow truck. But of course she had no cell phone, no way to call for help. Hopefully, a car would come along, but then…what if… In her vulnerable state, the paranoia of the night before returned.
Oh, God, what if Carlos is out looking for me? What if he’s somehow managed to track me here?
No, she didn’t dare flag down a passing stranger. She had to get to some sort of settlement—one of those tiny dots on the map. Surely there would be someone there with a telephone. She could walk—it couldn’t be that far. She’d been driving for what seemed like forever. She had to have already covered most of the distance to the next one.
Holding on to the open door, she pulled herself to her feet. Though it was a tight squeeze, she managed to stretch across the seat and retrieve the map and what remained of her water and snacks from where they’d slid onto the floor during her wild ride and final descent into the ravine.
So far, so good. But now she became aware of the sun beating down on her unprotected head, and any idiot knew about the dangers of walking in the desert without proper protection.
Then she remembered the habit. Izzy’s habit, that she’d tossed so casually into the trunk after she’d made her escape from the Delacorte estate. It would be rather like the robes desert Arabs wore, wouldn’t it? Perfect.
She pulled the trunk release—gratified to discover it still worked—then managed make her way back up the dirt bank, pulling herself along the side of the car, until she could reach the trunk. She lifted the trunk lid and gathered up the pile of fabric that was Izzy’s habit, then had to bend over with it clutched to her chest as pain unlike anything she’d ever known before gripped her back and pelvis like a giant vise.
