I sit hunched forward, elbows on my knees, twisting the wedding band round and round my finger, lips moving in silent prayer.I don’t even know what I’m praying for anymore—strength, clarity, protection, maybe just the sound of God’s voice cutting through this fluorescent-lit purgatory.
Across from me, a woman in a metallic minidress and six-inch heels watches me with mild amusement.“Rough honeymoon?”she asks, smacking bubblegum.
I don’t answer.My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.No one has told me where Jagger is.No one will tell me anything.
I close my eyes and press my thumb hard against the ring, grounding myself in its weight, its wrongness, the promise I made for reasons God knows and I’m still trying to understand.
Please,I pray—not eloquent now, just desperate.Don’t let me be wrong about him.
Footsteps echo.A guard appears at the bars.“Adena Rourke.”
My head snaps up, and I vault to the bars.Rourke already.Not Graceson anymore.My stomach drops.“Your people are here.”
My people turn out to be Verity and Silas.Verity looks somewhat distressed when she sees me in the now wrecked and bloodied wedding dress.Silas, however, looks downright… disappointed.
“You couldn’t have found an exit that didn’t involve committing five felonies in the space of thirty minutes?”he says.
I grip the bars as the guard slips the key into the lock.“Where have they taken Jagger?Is he okay?”
Verity answers.“High thigh gunshot.No arterial hit.Significant blood loss, surgical repair to the muscle.He’s stable and waking up.Nolan’s already at the hospital.”
Relief makes my tears fill.I duck my head, and blink them away before anyone sees.
The guard leads us down a short corridor.My bare feet slap on concrete.Verity walks beside me, casting despairing looks down at me.Silas strides ahead, jaw tight, probably already calculating damage control.
He’s going to blame himself for this.I know he will.
They stop at a small interview room.No windows.A metal table.A stack of paper cups in the corner, like that somehow makes this place humane.
Silas shuts the door.“Sit.”
I lower myself carefully into the chair.The dress sticks to my skin, the blood long dried.My head is pounding.
“Ben’s locking Hightower down,” Silas says, leaning against the table.“The DA’s irritated, but once they realized Jagger was DEA and the officer fired without identifying his target, they didn’t want it in their lap.No civilians were hit.They’re calling it no charges for now.”
Verity blows out a breath.“That’s a relief.”
Silas lifts a hand.“It doesn’t mean it’s over.They’re deciding whether to cut you loose tonight or hold you briefly while the feds sort jurisdiction.”
I rub my palms on the ruined fabric of my skirt.“And after?What happens after that?”
“You leave Vegas,” Silas says, “stay low, and you donotget into any trouble.”
I look up sharply.“Where am I going?”
He doesn’t answer right away.“Somewhere safe.The cartel isn’t done, and you’re too exposed now.”
Verity places a hand on the table, palm up—a quiet offering.“We’re all praying.For you, and for Jagger.”
I squeeze her fingers, grateful for the contact and the reassurance.
“Ben’s coordinating with federal counsel,” Silas says.“He’ll lay out the conditions before they let you walk.”
A guard knocks, opens the door.“Time.”
Silas squeezes my shoulder once, tells me he’s praying hard, Verity hugs me, tells me to lean on Christ, and then I’m alone again.
The door closes behind them.The guard appears and gestures for me to stand.
