Naomi. Ask him. Call him.”

It was the simplest way to find out if they knew something. But the way these

guys were watching her . . . the cold doubt in their eyes. Covenant House was

a shelter for homeless kids. Kids who got lit on fire when they left their gang.

Or got sold by their dad as a sex toy for quick drug money. These kids . . .

weren’t kids.

“Cal don’t date no giant girls,” Panther Tattoo challenged.

“Well, he dates me,” Naomi insisted.

“Yah? When wuz ya last date?”

Naomi didn’t even hesitate. “Two nights ago.”

“Tha’s funny — cuz he wuz here playin’ Xbox with us two nights back.”

The chubby kid with the accent leaned in and pointed a finger at Naomi’s

face. “You got a problem now, luv. And don’t think we didn’t spot that bloody

little pistol you got hidin’ behind your—”

In a blur, Naomi gripped the kid’s stubby finger and bent it back, then twirled

him around, pinned his arm behind his back, and rammed his chest and chin

against the nearby wall. A dozen different plaques and commendations shook

at the impact.

“ICE agent, which means federal, which means be really bloody careful what

you do next,” Naomi growled, using her free hand to slide open her jacket and

show off the badge on her belt.

To her surprise, none of the gang rushed forward or mouthed off. In fact,

since the moment she came in, they’d all been standing almost entirely in the

same—

Crap.

“Outta the way! Now!” Naomi ordered, waving them toward the corner of the

sparse old motel room and heading for the bathroom at the back.

“Lady, you can’t just—”

“Giant people can do anything,” Naomi shot back, shoving British Boy aside

and finally getting her first good look at the bathroom’s closed door . . . and

the light that was on underneath. A shadow flitted, then disappeared.

Someone was definitely in there.

“Get back to your rooms!” she yelled at the kids, who scattered onto the

breezeway as she pulled her gun. “And Cal, I checked when I was outside. I

know there’s no window in there!”

She kicked the door and tried the handle. Locked.

“Cal, I’m counting to one!” Naomi shouted. “After that, you’re paying for

whatever it costs to get a bullet out of your—”

Click.

The door opened, revealing a man with a thick nose, an even thicker waist,

and thinning black hair that was tied back in a ponytail.

“If you need to use the can, all you gotta do is ask,” Roosevelt said with a

grin as he rolled Cal’s phone in his palm.

28

Stepping out from the bathroom, Roosevelt studied the tall woman carefully.

Cal warned him they’d send someone — and she clearly wasn’t a novice. But

that didn’t mean their stalling hadn’t worked.

“You switched phones with him,” Naomi said, annoyed.

“Me? I’m a man of God. I’d never—” Roosevelt glanced down at the phone in

his hand and forced a look of surprise. “This isn’t my phone! Sweet mother of

Shirley Hemphill, how’d this happen?”

Naomi’s hand jumped out, snatching the phone from Roosevelt’s palm.

“Hey! You can’t—”

Naomi aimed her gun at Roosevelt’s chest. “I can.” Without another word, she

started clicking through the menu on Cal’s phone: Call Log, Placed Calls . . .

“Here we go,” she announced. “Last number dialed: Roosevelt (Mobile).”

Naomi pushed the call button and waited.

But as the phone rang in her ear, there was another ring in Roo-sevelt’s front

pocket.

Roosevelt reached down and pulled out a second ringing phone, flipped it

open, and held it to his ear.

“Hello,” he sang, watching Naomi’s face as his words echoed in her ear. “I

musta had both phones all along. What’re the oddsa that?”

For a moment, Naomi just stood there, her light blue eyes narrowing.

Roosevelt knew she could lock him up and sling questions at him for the next

few hours. But by then, Cal would be long gone.

“You really a former priest?” Naomi asked.

“Former pastor.”

“My partner’s missing. I’m praying not dead,” she said of Timothy. “Did Cal

tell you that?”

Roosevelt stayed silent. She was smart — going right for his preacher’s guilt.

Years ago, Roosevelt’s superiors in the church did the same when they told

him he was hurting his parish by not being married. Back then, he refused to

fight and lost everything he loved. Not a single day went by where he didn’t

wish he could have that life back. When he didn’t think of ways to reclaim

that pulpit. So an hour ago, when Cal and his father had come scrambling in

here, searching for help — he could see the way that Cal, even through his

fear, kept glancing over and over at his dad. At nine years old, Cal had had

his life taken from him, too. This was his chance to have that life back,

somehow, in some form. And as Roosevelt knew, that was well worth fighting

for.

“You work your side of the street, and I’ll work mine,” Roosevelt said.

Naomi just stood there. Then she turned to open the door, and with a slam,

she was gone.

After giving it a minute, Roosevelt flipped open his phone and started dialing.

It rang twice before—

“Roosevelt?” Cal answered. “I told you not to call unless—”

“They sent someone, Cal. From ICE, just like you said.”

The door burst open, and Naomi stormed back into the room. “Couldn’t even

wait two minutes, could you!?” she yelled, snatching the phone from

Roosevelt’s hand. He tried to grab it back.

She pulled her gun and aimed it directly at his neck.

As Roosevelt raised his hands, Naomi put the phone to her ear. “Hey, Cal,”

she said. “Naomi. Remember me?”

29

Ten minutes ago

Fort Lauderdale Airport

We enter the terminal separately. We get in line separately. We pick up our

tickets separately. My father’s calm. I’m not. I spent years covering every

port, including this airport. I know where all the security cameras are hidden.

I know which taxicabs out front have undercover agents in them (the ones

lingering in the limo line), ready at any moment to pick up an arriving suspect

who thinks he’s home free. But what’s got me scanning the crowd is whether

Ellis saw us leaving as we snuck out of my building.

“Here you go, Mr. Frenzel,” says the woman at the airline counter, handing

me my ticket and calling me by the name of one of the dozens of fake IDs

that had been left in the van over the years.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Sanone,” another agent says to my dad, who for once

is following my directions and keeping his head down as he leaves the

counter. By flying under fake names, we’re untraceable. But if Ellis is half the

cop I think he is — the way he got to Timothy right after I did — all he has to

do is pull airport video to be right back on our trail. That’s what I would do.

But that doesn’t mean I’m making it easy for him.

Readjusting the green backpack that holds the Superman comic in its waxpaper

protector, I keep my chin down but am surprised to see a spy cam —

flat and thin like a calculator — mounted in a fake palm tree at the end of the

airline counter. Dammit. I duck under the velvet check-in rope, wishing I

could blame it on my lack of sleep. But I’m clearly rusty. I’ve been off the job

for over four years. Of course there’s gonna be new cameras.

Trying to be smarter as I head toward security, I glance back at my father,

but he’s barely moving. Worst of all, he’s no longer staring down, hiding his

face. In fact, the way he’s looking around . . . like he sees something. Or

someone.

On our left, by the airport gift shop, a dolly stacked with old magazines and

newspapers is wheeled out of the way, revealing a young, light-skinned black

woman in a rhinestoned Bob Marley T-shirt, dark jeans, and 80s Top Gun

sunglasses. I’ve seen her before. At the hospital.

“Serena,” my dad blurts just as I reach the front of the security line.

“I’m sorry, I forgot something,” I tell the lady checking tickets at security.

Swimming upstream and squeezing past the other passengers, I fight toward

the back of the line and grab my dad by the biceps.

“What’re you doing?” I hiss.

“Cal, this isn’t my fault.”

“We were supposed to tell no one. As in no one.”

“I swear to you, I didn’t say a word,” my dad insists.

“He didn’t say a word,” Serena adds. “Quisiera estar aquí para ti,” she

whispers to my dad in Spanish. I just wanted to be here for you.

From the shock on my dad’s face — as I tug his arm and steer us away from

security — he’s just as surprised as I am. “Cal . . . son . . .”

“Don’t call me son!” I explode as every nearby TSA employee turns our way.

I don’t care.

My dad forces a smile and puts a hand on my shoulder like all is well. I jerk

back until he takes it off.

“Please don’t blame your father. Every soul needs its own flow,” Serena says,

carefully pronouncing each syllable. She has a tender voice that’s as calming

as wind chimes, and as she speaks, her yellow blue eyes make peaceful

contact. First with me, then my dad. Like she’s seeing something within.

“That’s the mushiest, new-agey-ist manure I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, finally

stopping all three of us in front of a set of floral sofas, where there are no

cameras in sight. “Now tell me why you’re really here!”

She steps back slightly, almost as if she’s confused. “When we were on the

phone — when I heard the terror in his voice — how could I not help him? He

needed me.”

“Needed you? What’re you, his muse?”

She shakes her head, but I’ve been around enough addicts to know what’s

really going on.

“She’s your sponsor, isn’t she?” I ask my dad.

“No. That’s not—”

The phone I traded with one of the kids vibrates in my front pocket. Only one

other person knows I have it.

“Roosevelt?” I answer. “I told you not to call unless—”

“They sent someone, Cal. From ICE, just like you sa—”

There’s a loud noise, like a door slamming. I hear some arguing, but nothing I

can make out.

“Hey, Cal,” a female voice says. “Naomi. Remember me?”

30

Silent on the phone, I leave my father and Serena by the floral sofas as I

keep scanning the area for cameras. The only good news is, it takes a solid

six minutes to track my cell. Plenty of time to find out who I’m up against.

“Sorry, not ringing my bells,” I tell the woman, hoping she’ll give me her last

name.

“Naomi Molina.”

Naomi Molina . . . Naomi . . . Naomi . . . If I knew her, it wasn’t well. Still, the

name . . . “Oh, wait — you’re the one who adopted that kid — the lesbian,

right?” It’s an old cop trick: riling her to see what she blurts.

“C’mon, Cal. The big-boned female agent who’s also a lesbo? Isn’t that a bit

overdone?” she flings back. “No thanks, but I like mine straight up, no twist.

But yes, I came aboard right as you were fired.”

“I wasn’t fired,” I shoot back, already regretting it. I should’ve seen it: riling

me to see what I blurt.

“Oh, that’s right — you took the far more honorable resign-on-your-ownand-

avoid-the-indictment. Let me ask: Were you really in love with Miss

Deirdre or was that just the story you saved for Internal Affairs?”

Once again, I stay silent. Across from me, Serena motions for my dad to join

her on one of the floral sofas. He doesn’t hesitate. And as they face each

other — their knees almost touching — she whispers something to him and

he smiles with a strange, newfound calm. From the body language alone, she

knows him well.

“Aw, that bump old bruises, Cal?” Naomi asks in my ear. “Now you know

how we felt when we heard you were kissing one of your CIs and putting your

fellow agents at risk.”