Page 79 of High Intensity

“Her name is Hayley,” I snap, upset these people seem to care so little. “And clearly she should’ve been returned to proper medical care.”

This time it’s Bellinger who answers.

“We didn’t feel it was safe at the time, we were able to apprehend a nurse who appeared to be the leak at the hospital, but can’t be sure she was the only hospital employee on the Ovando family payroll. And now the girl’s uncle is scheduled to pick her up tomorrow, and we haven’t been able to interview the girl. She still isn’t talking.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“You sound more concerned about getting information from her before her uncle takes custody of her, than you are about the fact she hasn’t eaten a proper meal in almost a week?”

Agent Williams is clearly uncomfortable with my accusations, but Bellinger’s expression doesn’t waver. The man exudes arrogance and clearly feels entirely justified.

Suddenly the picture becomes clear.

“You want me to help get her talking and are only using the fact she’s not eating to get my attention, aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “This is still a very active investigation, the girl is a potential witness, and you are the only one she’s spoken to, from what I understand. I’m only doing my job.”

Only doing my job,my ass.

As much as I want to slam the door in his face, I can’t turn my back on a starving young girl who is traumatized, scared, and alone, when I may be able to help her. With a little help from Nugget, of course.

“Where is she?”

I curb the urge to swipe that smug grin off Bellinger’s face.

“We’ll drive you there.”

I plant my hands on my hips. “I don’t think so. I can drive myself.”

I’m getting the feeling everything with this man is a power struggle, as he tries to stare me down. Not sure what he thinks he’ll achieve by doing that, since it only makes me dig my heels in.

“I can’t simply give out the location of our safe house,” he finally sputters.

I bark out a laugh at that.

“Are you serious right now? Unless you propose I communicate with Hayley telepathically, I have to know where she is.”

“She’s got a point,” Williams, who has stayed quiet and in the background for most of this exchange, volunteers.

It earns him a dirty look from his colleague.

“Besides,” I add. “I need to know whether I’m going to be two hours from home or five minutes so I can make appropriate arrangements for my animals.”

“Fine. It’s in town. You can follow us,” Bellinger concedes, already walking down the porch steps.

“I just need a few minutes to get ready,” I call after him.

“Williams, you drive with her. I don’t have the time to wait,” he orders without even turning around.

As Bellinger drives off, I invite Williams inside to wait while I feed the dogs, clean up, and pack a few things in my backpack. The dogs give him a good sniff down, but to his credit he tolerates their, at times, invasive scrutiny.

“Do you have dogs?” I ask on a hunch as we walk to my SUV.

“I do. Well, technically my wife does. They came as a package deal,” he explains, a faint smile on his face. “Gibson is a twelve-year old chocolate Lab and spoiled rotten.”

I instantly revise my initial impression of the man to one a bit more favorable. After all, he clearly cares for his wife and the dog.

He directs me toward Libby, but I’m surprised when he tells me to turn left on Break Road, only a few miles north of my place. I can see why they picked this location; it’s the last house on a dead-end street and far from prying eyes.

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