Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"That's good. How are you feeling?"
She watches me for a moment like she's trying to decide if she wants to tell me the truth or not. "Tired," she finally whispers. "And cold."
I glance around, frowning when I don't see any blankets. "Sai," I call quietly, and then wait for him to peek inside the room. "Go find her a blanket."
He nods and then disappears down the hall.
"That's really not necessary."
"It is," I disagree.
She frowns at me, her face scrunching up in annoyance.
"Do you remember what happened?" I ask, forestalling the argument brewing in those expressive eyes. For someone who lived in captivity for so long, she really doesn't like being told what to do. That's probably going to be a problem, because I'm an asshole who loves barking orders.
She opens her mouth and then closes it, shivering slightly. "Yes, I remember what happened, Detective Hernandez."
Sai taps on the door, drawing my attention. He's got a stack of blankets draped over his arm. "They were in the warmer," he says, holding them out to me.
"Thank you, Officer Patel," Faith murmurs politely when he sets them on the end of the bed.
He nods and ducks back outside, pulling the door partially closed behind him.
She eyes the small crack nervously before looking at me again.
"You're safe with me, Faith," I promise, reaching forward to shake out one of the blankets. I drape it around her shoulders, tucking it carefully so it won't come loose. "I won't hurt you."
"Okay," she whispers, though she doesn't relax until I'm seated on the stool across from her again. She watches me warily for a long moment, her face scrunched up like she's trying to figure me out. "Do you have more questions for me, Detective Hernandez? I already told you what I saw."
"I do," I say, and then hesitate, reluctant to drag her even further into a war that isn't hers to fight. If I had another option, I wouldn't do it…but Nikolai Tarasova needs to be stopped. And all of my instincts scream at me that this woman may have the answers to questions I've been asking for half my life. I just have to convince her to give them to me. "Do you know what esclavo del narco means, Faith?"
"Slave of the narco," she says immediately, the tip of her tongue peeking out to wet her bottom lip again. "It's what Latino call cartel slaves, right?"
"It is," I murmur, keeping my voice calm and level. "Cartels like the Tarasova family imprison innocent victims and force them to work. For women, that often entails working as prostitutes or maids. Men are forced to run drugs or work at cartel-owned businesses."
Faith flinches.
"I understand that you were under the protection of Nikolai Tarasova," I say, grimacing at the word protection. If Tarasova kept her around, it wasn't to protect her. Her injuries are proof of that. "But I need to ask if you were there of your own volition, angel."
"I don't understand. I thought you wanted to ask me about the shooting."
"We'll get to that," I promise, hating the way she folds in on herself as if trying to make herself a smaller target. Distress whispers across her face, those honey eyes haunted. "Were you there of your own volition, Faith?"
"I'm not…I'm not that," she mutters, though it sounds more like she's trying to convince herself than me. "I'm not a prostitute. I'm not one of their slaves." She carefully avoids saying she doesn't work for them. She also avoids answering my question.
"Were you there of your own volition, Faith?" I ask again, relieved that she wasn't working the streets for them. I'm not sure why I believe her, but I do. Whatever they forced her to do, they didn't prostitute her. She didn't suffer that horror.
"I don't…" She frowns, pressing one bandaged hand to her forehead like her head hurts. "Why are you asking me this, Detective Hernandez?"
"I spoke to your doctor."
She blanches, her hand dropping heavily back to her lap. The edge of the blanket comes loose, one side fluttering to the floor. Her eyes narrow on me and her cheeks darken, her tawny skin flushing as distress turns to anger. "You had no right to do that."
"Most of your injuries are old," I say, pushing forward even as sympathy wells, demanding I shut up and let her be. She's already been through more than anyone ever should. "The doctor believes you were just a child when you sustained them."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she mutters, her jaw firming. Her shoulders go back as anger grows, her honey-eyes darkening to pools of molten, liquid flame. "My health is none of your business."
Any healthcare provider who suspects abuse has a legal obligation to report it. Her doctor should have told her that but didn't. I know why he didn't tell her—he was trying to ensure she didn't completely shut down and refuse the medical care she desperately needs. His heart was in the right place, but that won't win him any favors with her.