you?”
“Please, James . . .”
Sara came awake and for two seconds, panic tried to take over. But she didn’t give in.
“Just a dream,” she told herself, her throat tight. She swallowed, but it didn’t do a damn thing to ease the tightness. There was a lump lodged halfway down and it wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. Not after that. “Not real.”
She lay still and quiet, let her heart settle as she took in what she could see without moving anything more than her eyes.
White ceiling, sloped and pristine—not stained and cracked. Sunlight filtering in through curtains. There hadn’t been a window in the last place she’d stayed.
Angling her head to the left, she stared at the table sitting neatly under the window, eyed the yellow walls.
Yellow . . . ?
Then her memory kicked in.
Theresa.
The apartment.
Closing her eyes, Sara blew out a sigh and wondered if it would ever be over. If she’d ever have a chance at anything resembling a normal life again. Then she sat up and stretched her arms over her head, wincing at her stiff back and neck.
The apartment was a godsend, but that futon was a torture device straight out of hell. With a grimace, she rolled off it and settled on the floor next to it. Grimly, she did a series of crunches, hating every second. She gritted her teeth through the push-ups that followed. Those were followed by the other exercises that she’d started doing over the last two years.
Leg extensions, lunges, squats.
With focused determination, she went through them all. Sweat was gleaming on her body by the time she started walking herself through the different self-defense techniques.
Martial arts was the one form of exercise she didn’t loathe and despise, although it might be because she didn’t let herself think of martial arts as exercise. At first, it had been harder to practice without a partner, but she’d gotten used to it.
In a little while, she’d dig out some tennis shoes and take a run around the neighborhood—that particular bit served a number of purposes. She could scout out the area, figure out some escape routes.
And it kept her strong, kept her ready.
Being out of shape just wasn’t acceptable.
Thirty minutes later, she was done with everything but the run. She went into the bathroom and paused in the doorway, unable to keep from smiling as she studied the cheery blue and white interior. A far cry from the cracked, urine-stained toilet and soap-scum-lined shower she’d shared with three other people over the last couple of months.
She caught sight of her face in the mirror and paused. She almost looked . . . content. Really content, not just the “everything is fine” mask she wore for the world.
“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered.
Getting used to something meant falling into a routine. Falling into a routine meant she got sloppy.
With that sobering thought, her half smile faded and she once more found herself staring at a grim-faced stranger. Nothing like the woman who’d stared back at her reflection just over two years ago.
Everything looked different. Her hair was short, the color drab. Her face was thinner, her mouth unsmiling. The worst change, though, came from inside. Anger—carry it on the inside for too long and it started to show on the outside.
Nobody, not even her own mother, would recognize her.
QUINN lay on the weight bench, ignoring the nagging ring of his phone. It was somebody from the Gearing Agency. Quinn used specific ringtones for the few that had his number—that way he could decide if it was a call that he could put off indefinitely or if he needed to answer it just to get some peace.
When certain people called, namely, his dad or his twin brother, Luke, Quinn usually answered. Calls from Jeb Gray, a friend from his army days, were a little more iffy. Sometimes Quinn felt like talking to Jeb. Other times, he didn’t.
Then there had been a few calls from Theresa, and although it surprised the hell out
“Please, James . . .”
Sara came awake and for two seconds, panic tried to take over. But she didn’t give in.
“Just a dream,” she told herself, her throat tight. She swallowed, but it didn’t do a damn thing to ease the tightness. There was a lump lodged halfway down and it wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. Not after that. “Not real.”
She lay still and quiet, let her heart settle as she took in what she could see without moving anything more than her eyes.
White ceiling, sloped and pristine—not stained and cracked. Sunlight filtering in through curtains. There hadn’t been a window in the last place she’d stayed.
Angling her head to the left, she stared at the table sitting neatly under the window, eyed the yellow walls.
Yellow . . . ?
Then her memory kicked in.
Theresa.
The apartment.
Closing her eyes, Sara blew out a sigh and wondered if it would ever be over. If she’d ever have a chance at anything resembling a normal life again. Then she sat up and stretched her arms over her head, wincing at her stiff back and neck.
The apartment was a godsend, but that futon was a torture device straight out of hell. With a grimace, she rolled off it and settled on the floor next to it. Grimly, she did a series of crunches, hating every second. She gritted her teeth through the push-ups that followed. Those were followed by the other exercises that she’d started doing over the last two years.
Leg extensions, lunges, squats.
With focused determination, she went through them all. Sweat was gleaming on her body by the time she started walking herself through the different self-defense techniques.
Martial arts was the one form of exercise she didn’t loathe and despise, although it might be because she didn’t let herself think of martial arts as exercise. At first, it had been harder to practice without a partner, but she’d gotten used to it.
In a little while, she’d dig out some tennis shoes and take a run around the neighborhood—that particular bit served a number of purposes. She could scout out the area, figure out some escape routes.
And it kept her strong, kept her ready.
Being out of shape just wasn’t acceptable.
Thirty minutes later, she was done with everything but the run. She went into the bathroom and paused in the doorway, unable to keep from smiling as she studied the cheery blue and white interior. A far cry from the cracked, urine-stained toilet and soap-scum-lined shower she’d shared with three other people over the last couple of months.
She caught sight of her face in the mirror and paused. She almost looked . . . content. Really content, not just the “everything is fine” mask she wore for the world.
“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered.
Getting used to something meant falling into a routine. Falling into a routine meant she got sloppy.
With that sobering thought, her half smile faded and she once more found herself staring at a grim-faced stranger. Nothing like the woman who’d stared back at her reflection just over two years ago.
Everything looked different. Her hair was short, the color drab. Her face was thinner, her mouth unsmiling. The worst change, though, came from inside. Anger—carry it on the inside for too long and it started to show on the outside.
Nobody, not even her own mother, would recognize her.
QUINN lay on the weight bench, ignoring the nagging ring of his phone. It was somebody from the Gearing Agency. Quinn used specific ringtones for the few that had his number—that way he could decide if it was a call that he could put off indefinitely or if he needed to answer it just to get some peace.
When certain people called, namely, his dad or his twin brother, Luke, Quinn usually answered. Calls from Jeb Gray, a friend from his army days, were a little more iffy. Sometimes Quinn felt like talking to Jeb. Other times, he didn’t.
Then there had been a few calls from Theresa, and although it surprised the hell out
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