Page 25 of The Sinner's Bargain

But I gritted my jaw and reminded myself my mother raised a fucking gentleman and focused on the task with single-minded focus. I got her in the dry top and used a wet rag to wash the dirt and grass from her small hands and feet. I towel dried her limbs, going as high as I dared up her thighs before tucking her under the blankets.

I was fairly certain that was more than enough assistance from me when I found my ass perching on the edge of the mattress by her hip and my hands working through a wild curtain of hair that unspooled and spilled across the pillow in golden ribbons when I freed them from the hundreds of small, metal pins. I tossed them on the nightstand as I dislodged them, then took much too long sifting through the locks searching for more before accepting there was none and just sitting there a moment longer to examine her face. The dark bruise just under the smeared makeup. The cut in her bottom lip from that prick. At a glance, I guessed she’d been in a shitty relationship with that fucker, but he’d been quick to point out he didn’t know her. She certainly didn’t seem like the sort to hitchhike, not in that dress.

Christ, that dress.

I glanced at the ruined puddle of white fabric leaking rainwater across the hardwood.

That dress was meant as a message. Whoever the intended recipient was, I had an inexplicable urge to kill him.

A knock at the door interrupted my homicidal tendencies. I glanced at the girl before pushing to my feet and moving to dislodge the lock.

Cyrus met my gaze from the other side with Oliver just over his shoulder. I frowned at my uncle but turned my attention to the other man.

“We found his car just down the road. This was inside.” He held up a generic, black backpack. “You might want to see what’s inside.”

My initial guess was drugs.

Drug mule wasn’t what I would have pegged her for, but it made the most sense.

I took the bag and caught both sets of eyes trying to peer past my frame. Cyrus was more subtle about it. Oliver was not; he was practically on his toes.

“Was there something else?” I challenged.

Cyrus didn’t bat an eye at my raised eyebrow. Oliver faltered.

“The girl—” Cyrus started.

“Is my concern.” I stepped back, prepared to close the door again.

“I really think we should get a doctor—” Oliver began.

My gaze dropped to the bag clutched in my fingers. “No.”

Not until I knew what I was dealing with. Getting outside people involved never ended well when drugs were tossed into the mix.

I closed the door. With my free hand, I dragged the chair away from the wall and took it with me to the bed. I sat and propped the bag into my lap.

With a glance at Sleeping Beauty, I tore it open and blinked.

No drugs.

Clothes and a baggie containing a book and passport. A wallet with cash and more ID. Nothing that, at a glance, would seem suspicious, until I flipped the book open.

“Katie Smith.” I stared at the name, then at my guest, trying to make the two match. “You are not Katie Smith,” I mumbled, knowing without a shred of doubt.

I had seen and created enough grab bags to know a fake identity when I saw one.

She was running.

“He was my ride,” she’d said.

I went over her new life. Her destination. I traced over the intricate outline with growing admiration; whoever put her pack together deserved a job with the government, or better yet, me. They were methodical. Every piece perfectly done. This was a labor of great love. They had spared no expense. They wanted to see her free and had made sure of it.

I sighed and shut the book. A knuckle tapped on the soft cover as I studied my new guest.

It truly was unfortunate that they tried so hard, done so much just for her to wind up being my prisoner.

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