Sebastian woke around 0900 the next morning—luxuriously late, by his standards. Jay was still fast asleep, ensconced in his sarcophagus of pillows. His next appointment at the surgery wasn’t until next week, meaning neither of them had anywhere to be; Sebastian let him sleep.
After a quick shower, Sebastian settled onto the sofa with his phone. He’d notified his clients he was off until the new year, but that didn’t stop some of them from expecting immediate responses to their queries. Sebastian was sorely tempted to let auto-reply handle it, but the kind of client who’d email him on holiday was the exact kind of client who’d take exception to a form response telling them to fuck off.
Jay finally showed signs of life just before noon, stirring and grumbling against the pillows.
“Morning,” Sebastian called out to him, and received a wordless grunt in response.
Jay in the mornings generally looked like he’d been run over by a bin lorry; that aside, he seemed a little better than he was yesterday. He moved more easily, and the bags under his eyes weren’t as dark.
Once Jay was conscious enough to hold up his end of a conversation, Sebastian said, “I was thinking we might take a trip into town.”
Jay considered it for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Shower, first.”
Sebastian went back to sifting through his emails. The bathroom door closed, the muffled noise of the shower drifting through. He was halfway through a careful reply to Milverton Analytics’ inquiry about a consult when a loud thump resounded from inside the bathroom.
It was the sound of a body hitting tile.
Sebastian shot to his feet, phone forgotten as he hurried to the bathroom door. He knocked; there was no answer. “Jay?”
Beneath the sound of the water running he could just make out a string of muffled, pained curses.
“I’m coming in,” he called out, and opened the door.
Jay was on his knees on the floor of the shower, bent so far forward his forehead nearly touched the tile. He had his arms folded loosely against his chest, water pouring down around him.
Sebastian threw the shower door open and turned the water off, then knelt at Jay’s side. Nothing looked broken from here, but there might be some injury he couldn’t see. “What happened?”
“Got soap in my eyes.” Jay’s teeth were clenched, his eyes squeezed shut. “Reached up too fast.”
Sebastian could see it clearly. The sudden backlash of pain would’ve thrown Jay off balance and made him slip. He’d probably caught himself on his hands as he fell, which would’ve only hurt worse.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked.
Jay shook his head.
“Hurt your neck?”
Another shake.
Sebastian blew out a relieved breath; either of those would have been his worst-case scenario. Leaning in close, he gingerly hooked an arm around Jay’s bare, damp waist and helped him to his feet. Jay latched onto Sebastian’s arms and clung tight, nails digging into his skin.
Jay’s clothes were piled on the floor in front of the sink, including the binder; the surgical drains were instead clipped to a faded purple lanyard he was wearing around his neck. Sebastian could just make out the words “Durham University” printed along its length.
He guided Jay to sit on the closed lid of the toilet and checked him over with eyes and hands. The stitches hadn’t popped, and the drain sites weren’t bleeding either. None of the bruising looked to be new. Sebastian yanked a towel off the rack, sending a few of the others to the floor in the process, and wrapped it around Jay’s trembling body.
Then he ducked his head to catch Jay’s eye, gently sweeping drenched hair away from his face. “All right?”
Jay’s eyes, when they met Sebastian’s, seethed with humiliated rage. “Get out.”
Sebastian rocked to his feet and backed out of the bathroom, closing the door between them.
He stood there for a moment with his hands braced on the door frame, staring at nothing. Then he turned and paced, out to the balcony and back.
Jay was fine. He wouldn’t have told Sebastian to leave if he weren’t fine.
And if he didn’t want help, the only thing Sebastian could give him was space.
This early in the afternoon, the beach club wasn’t tremendously busy. Sebastian sidled up to the bar and ordered a Mojito; reaching for his wallet, he realised only then that he’d left both it and his phone in the room. He tapped his wristband against the card reader instead.
Further down the bar, Mrs. Bray and her new Russian friend sat side-by-side. Bray had a death grip on a nearly-empty Tequila Sunrise.
“It’s not just that she cheated on me.” Bray’s voice had that wobbly quality of someone who’d been crying on and off for days. “It’s that she cheated on me with a man.”
The Russian nodded sagely. “Pain is pain, but this thought, it leads nowhere good. ‘Gold star’ is inherently problematic concept, da?”
Drink in hand, Sebastian moved to one of the tables and dropped into a chair with a soft sigh.
He couldn’t regret walking into that bathroom. The stakes of a fall like that were high enough that Jay being hacked off at him was one of the better outcomes. Even so, it was obvious that Jay didn’t want Sebastian to see him in that state—vulnerable, hurt, powerless.
But if that was the case, why was Sebastian here?
Well, that was simple, actually. He was here because Jay had asked him. But why had Jay asked him?
A shadow passed over the table. “Captain Moran,” said a familiar voice. “I thought that was you.”
Sebastian looked up into the grinning face of the man standing over him; there was a bit more grey in his neat beard and slicked-back hair than the last time Sebastian had seen him, but other than that he looked the same: stocky and square, well-groomed, and dressed in a light, summer-weight suit.
“Hello, Volkan,” Sebastian said.
Sore and humiliated, Jay sat in the echoing silence of the bathroom until the pain in his chest eased enough for him to stand.
For a moment, as Moran was lifting him off the floor of the shower, he’d felt … relieved. Protected. And on the heels of that feeling came disgust—that he was so fragile, so powerless, he needed Moran to come pick him up and kiss it better.
Jay climbed back into the shower just long enough to finish rinsing out his hair, then tugged his clothes back on and stepped out of the bathroom.
The box of pain pills was on the bedside table. Jay popped one free, swallowed it down, and settled onto the couch.
Moran’s phone was on the coffee table.
It was … worrying. Moran was completely out of contact until whenever he decided to come back; Jay couldn’t even track his location.
Well. That wasn’t exactly true.
Jay reached for his laptop. The Serenidad’s array of security cameras were, tragically, just as easy to access as the smart TVs had been. Before long Jay was sifting through video feeds one by one, with a keen eye out for Moran’s distinctive frame.
He wasn’t in the restaurant, or out on the terrace. The obvious options exhausted, Jay checked the spa.
The loud, social American was there; as Jay watched, a member of staff in white scrubs came to collect him from the waiting room. The woman from room 262 was present, too—curled up in a chair with a magazine open on her lap, her leg bouncing relentlessly up and down.
No sign of Moran, though. Not in the lobby, either—or on the beach, or in the kitchens.
He switched to the room feeds. There was no reason for Moran to be in one of the guest rooms, not really, but—
Jay hesitated as the feed from room 117 appeared on his screen.
Tate’s stolen wheelchair now had an IV stand attached. The man himself sat at the table, tearing open a small, unmarked parcel. Inside was a brown plastic bottle—the kind used by chemists. Moving with practised care, Tate unscrewed the top of the bottle and, using an eyedropper, decanted its contents into a set of tiny vials laid out on the table.
There was something unsettling about the whole scenario, but Jay couldn’t focus long enough to figure out what it was. So he kept sifting through the feeds, and finally found Moran.
Volkan was more hands-on than most hotel owners, and kept an office on the premises: a converted suite with a private terrace. Mounted on the wall, overlooking the sofa where Sebastian was sitting, was another of the hotel’s smart TVs.
There was also a dry bar, where Volkan was pouring two glasses of some very fine Spanish brandy. He handed one of them to Sebastian, then gestured to the side of his own face, eyes fixed on the scars marring Sebastian’s. “What happened here?”
Sebastian lifted the glass to his lips. “Got into a knife fight with a tiger.”
That shocked a delighted laugh out of Volkan. “I know better than to ask if you’re joking.”
Sebastian lowered the glass and leaned back into the sofa. “I would’ve expected you to be hiding out on a private island somewhere.”
“Islands are more trouble than they’re worth,” Volkan groused. “No roads, no electricity. No plumbing. And this place, I got for cheaper than an island—the original owners went bankrupt.” He leaned against the edge of his desk; Sebastian recognised it from Volkan’s old office in Istanbul, a massive mahogany piece with ivy leaves carved along its edges in elaborate relief. “It’s my little piece of paradise.”
Sebastian sipped lightly at the brandy. “You’re not worried about some of the guests you’ve got here?”
Volkan’s grin had a vicious edge to it. “I doubt any of them are as dangerous as you, Captain.” He shrugged. “And so long as they don’t cause trouble, their business is none of mine. I’m well out of it all. The favour I did for you—that was my last job.”
Sebastian downed the rest of the brandy in one go. “Mine, too.”
Volkan plucked the empty glass from his fingers and strolled back to the bar. “I heard they kicked you out of the army.”
“I was politely asked to leave.” Sebastian had plenty of practice making the words sound casual and unconcerned. He doubted Volkan would believe him, but at least he would keep those doubts to himself. “And it was time for me to move on, anyway.”
There was a soft clink as Volkan refilled Sebastian’s glass. He made his way back around to the couch and handed it over. “And where’s the pretty young thing you checked in with?”
It wasn’t an inaccurate description of Jay, was the thing. But he’d likely stab anyone who made the mistake of calling him that in his presence. Sebastian hid a smile in his drink. “Jay’s back at the room. He’s … not feeling well.”
“He’s a bit young for you, isn’t he?” There was a teasing gleam in Volkan’s eye. “Is this your midlife crisis? Dating a twink?”
Sebastian groaned and tipped his head back against the sofa, rolling his eyes. “There is nothing more ridiculous than a straight man who says ‘twink.’” He took a slow breath. “And we’re not exactly dating.”
“What are you doing, then?”
Sebastian glanced at the telly and shrugged. They were shagging and occasionally committing crimes together, but that was an infinitely worse way of putting it.
“Ah. This is what the young people are calling a ‘situationship,’ isn’t it?”
Sebastian levelled a glare at him. “You should’ve bought that island. At least then you wouldn’t have internet access.” He swallowed another mouthful of brandy—it really was too good for him to be tossing it back like this. “I’m not exactly the dating type, Volkan. It’s not like I’ve got much to offer in that department—the job never lent itself to long-term relationships.”
Which wasn’t exactly true. Plenty of men in the regiment were married; having a spouse got a soldier quartered in a house of their own, instead of the barracks. But if the job lent itself poorly to relationships, it lent itself worse to a happy home life.
Sebastian had never seen the point. He’d be just as alone either way. So he’d burned his personal life to the ground for the sake of his career, then burned his career to the ground, too. And now here he was—surplus to requirements.
“But you’re not in that line of work any more.” Volkan leaned closer. “May I offer you some advice?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Sebastian said immediately. “You’ve been divorced four times. Twice from the same woman.”
“All that means,” Volkan was quick to point out, “is that I convinced three women to marry me. One of them even after she’d divorced me already.”
“And then she stabbed you.”
Volkan was undeterred. “Such is romance.”
Sebastian finished off the brandy and held the glass out to Volkan. “If we’re going to keep talking about this, I need another drink.”
A beep from the door announced Moran’s return to the hotel room.
It was nearly midnight. The drugs had done their job and then some; Jay found the thought of laying back and drifting off an increasingly tempting one, but he wanted to know Moran was back first. And here he was, sidling through the door with a relaxed languor that, Jay was learning, meant he was drunk.
Moran seemed unsurprised to see Jay sat up in bed with his laptop across his thighs. He paused at the edge of the bed to undress, stripping down to his boxers before flopping down heavily next to Jay.
He rested his temple on Jay’s shoulder, peered at the array of video feeds on his screen, and made a satisfied noise. “Thought so.”
“I didn’t know where you went.” Between the exhaustion and the opiates, Jay was finding it hard to keep his thoughts inside his head. “I was worried.”
Moran turned his head and pressed a kiss to Jay’s collarbone—a wordless apology.
He was fine. He was here.
“Who’s that you were with?” Jay started to close out of the feeds. “It seemed like you knew each other.”
“Old colleague.” Moran rubbed his cheek against Jay’s shoulder. “There’s places a British Army helicopter can’t go. Volkan could usually get us there instead.”
Jay’s fingers paused over the touchpad. Moran probably wouldn’t have told him that if he were sober.
The feed from Tate’s room was the last he closed. The room was dark; its occupant had turned in early. “Tate picked up some kind of drug today,” Jay said. “He was divvying it up into smaller amounts. Single doses.”
Moran pointed out the obvious: “You said he was a drug dealer.”
“But it wasn’t cocaine.” Jay chewed his lip, struggling to focus. “It was liquid. Could’ve been a psychedelic. Or maybe a sedative.”
Moran hummed into Jay’s shirt. “Explains the wheelchair, then.”
Jay lost his train of thought. “What?”
Moran shrugged. “Sometimes you need to extract someone alive, but you can’t just storm wherever they’re holed up—too many people. So instead you drug them, strap them in, and …” He made a vague forward motion with his hand, implying the act of steering a wheelchair to some clandestine location.
The mental image was a bit unnerving. “And that works?”
“Oh, yes.” Even drunk, Moran had his professional pride. “Nobody’s in a hurry to stop you if they think you’re transporting an invalid.”
The full implications of everything he’d said caught up to Jay all at once. “Wait, does that mean Tate is about to try and abduct somebody?”
Moran didn’t answer. He’d fallen asleep on Jay’s shoulder.
“I told you that?”
Sebastian was just now remembering why it was a stupid idea to drink with Volkan: the man was one of the few civilians he’d met who could keep pace with an SAS operator, and his body had elected to punish him for this lapse in judgement. He’d nicked a couple of Jay’s ibuprofen and now sat on the carpet next to the closed bathroom door, working his way through a bottle of water from the minibar.
Inside the bathroom, Jay was emptying his drains. “You were … fairly candid last night.”
Fuck.
Sebastian’s memories of the night before got little vague right around the point where Volkan had started prying into his love life. It wasn’t a full blackout—he remembered leaving Volkan’s office far later than he should have, and he remembered getting back to the room. The details were just a bit … blurry.
And apparently he’d explained some of the finer points of black-ops extradition, alongside god knew what else.
Through the door, Jay continued, “So there’s a good chance Tate is planning to kidnap somebody.”
Right. There was also that. “A very good chance, yes.” Sebastian rubbed his eyes, hoping to ease the dull ache behind them. “Volkan’s tolerating his presence for now, but I don’t think he’d look the other way if Tate tried to abduct one of his guests.”
“If he retaliated, that could start a war with Tasha Lamb.”
Sebastian groaned. “Wouldn’t make for a very relaxing holiday.”
There was a brief, contemplative silence behind the door. “Shit. Don’t tell me we have to call the police.”
“Wouldn’t do much good. The only evidence we’ve got is illegal surveillance, and Volkan is paid up with the right people.”
“So the coppers won’t come anywhere near here.”
Sebastian considered the question. “Not unless somebody pulled a gun and started shooting, I suppose. That’s a bit hard to ignore.” His brain caught up with his mouth a few seconds too late, and he winced.
“Let’s reserve that for Plan M.” The door opened and Jay emerged from the bathroom, buttoning up his shirt. “Why are you on the floor?”
“Couldn’t hear you properly from the sofa.” Sebastian tipped his head back against the wall to look up at Jay. He had that face on which meant he was thinking. And god, wasn’t that a relief—if Jay was working it all out, that meant Sebastian didn’t have to. “What should we do?”
“For starters,” Jay said, “we need to keep a closer eye on Tate.”
Keeping tabs on Mr. Tate proved to be an easy job. His movements were largely restricted to the Serenidad; he had a tendency to lurk in the resort’s public areas, keeping an eye out for something—or someone. By lunchtime, he was camped out on the terrace.
Therefore, so were Jay and Sebastian.
The terrace was on the coastal side of the resort, offering a spectacular view of the beach and the sea beyond. Even with the sun directly overhead, the shadow of the main building combined with a narrow pool along the terrace’s edge to keep the space relatively cool.
Loud chatter from the other side of the terrace confirmed the presence of the American they’d spotted in the restaurant the other night; he was sitting with two young women who looked to be locals.
Sebastian ordered the stingray; he’d never had stingray before, and its presence on the menu caught his eye. Jay ordered a vegetable stew off the starter list and proceeded to barely pick at it.
A few tables away, well within line of sight for both of them, Tate was taking a phone call. He spoke in low tones; at this distance, Sebastian couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“It’d be nice to have a bug on his phone,” Sebastian mused.
Jay reached for his own phone. A few taps later, he shook his head. “He’s got his Wi-Fi and Bluetooth turned off. I can’t get in remotely.”
From here, the phone didn’t seem to be an expensive model. It had that fresh-out-of-the-box look that usually indicated a prepaid burner. “If we bugged a matching phone, we could swap his SIM card into it.”
“Might work.” Jay had a calculating look. “If he switches phones as often as the other drug dealers I know, he wouldn’t notice the difference. You’d need to get close to him, though.”
“Intimately so,” Sebastian agreed.
Jay made a contemplative sound and turned his attention back to his phone—searching for something.
Movement in Sebastian’s peripheral caught his eye. Niki, the hotel manager, was headed their way with two flutes of champagne in her hands. She placed them both on the table, prompting a guilty start from Jay; he quickly lowered his phone until it was face-down against his thigh.
Niki was thankfully oblivious to Jay’s reaction. “Compliments of management,” she said, with a suggestive edge to her otherwise practised smile. “And if there’s anything else we can do for you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“Of course.” Sebastian’s answering smile was perfectly innocent. “Please pass my thanks to your boss.”
Niki nodded and, having been politely dismissed, strode back the way she’d come.
Once she was out of earshot, Jay said, “The fuck was that?”
“Volkan thinks he’s helping.” Sebastian snagged the flute in front of Jay and downed half of it.
Jay glared at him with a wordless noise of annoyed protest.
“You can’t drink,” Sebastian reminded him. “You’re on painkillers.”
Jay grumbled and went back to tapping at his phone while Sebastian finished off the rest of the champagne. After a few minutes, he said, “Looks like Tate’s booked a seat on a boat tour this evening.”
“Large group of people in a confined space.” Sebastian set the empty flute back down on Jay’s side of the table and picked up his own. “That should work.”
Niki was still hanging around the terrace, checking in with the other guests. Sebastian caught her eye and waved her over.
“Hi,” he said, as she approached. “I just thought of something—we’d love to get some seats on tonight’s boat tour.”
“A romantic evening on the water.” Niki seemed delighted by the idea. “Yes, of course. I’ll arrange everything.”
“Wait,” Jay muttered, as Niki hurried away. His expression resembled nothing so much as a deer about to have an intimate encounter with the front grille of a semi-truck. “Romantic?”
When Jay first read the words “boat tour” in the hotel’s booking system, he’d imagined the usual: a vessel roughly the same size and shape as a bus with as many rows of uncomfortable seats as could be jammed into the available deck space, plus a tour guide with a cheap megaphone that rendered them nearly incomprehensible.
He’d imagined wrong.
The Serenidad’s tour boat was easily fifty meters long and broad across the beam; an elevated upper deck served as observation area for passengers to take in the rugged scenery of the coast, while the main deck featured a full bar and opulent dining lounge.
The hotel manager had booked them a booth in a quiet, intimate corner of the deck. The sun hung low on the water, lighting up the sky in spectacular shades of orange and violet.
Moran ordered the sea bass, which arrived at the table on a bed of rock salt and garnished with slices of lemon. It was a whole fish, head and all—a dish for two, meant to be shared.
It really was a tiny booth. Their legs were tangled together beneath the table, and Moran was touching him—running the fingers of his free hand along Jay’s wrist and forearm where they rested on the table.
“Everyone’s looking,” Jay muttered. He didn’t pull his arm away.
“No, they’re not,” Moran replied with lazy confidence. He’d already finished one glass of white wine and was well into the second. “Public affection makes people uncomfortable. They’re very carefully not looking.” He stroked his thumb over the back of Jay’s hand. “What’s Tate doing?”
Over Moran’s shoulder, Jay could just spot Tate where he sat at the far end of the dining lounge. The positioning was deliberate; it gave him a clear view of the whole main deck.
“I think he’s watching someone.” Unthinking, Jay turned his head to follow Tate’s line of sight.
Moran’s hand snapped out and caught him by the chin, halting the movement.
Jay froze in place. Fuck. Amateur move. He could’ve given them both away.
The tension in Moran’s arm relaxed, and his thumb brushed briefly over Jay’s lower lip—disguising the whole incident as an affectionate gesture. With a fond smile, he drew his hand back.
“Oh god, they’re so lovely together.” Mrs. Bray was at the next table over, clutching a Strawberry Daiquiri; it wasn’t her first. Across from her sat the Russian.
Tate was moving, headed for the bar. Jay caught Moran’s eye and nodded over his shoulder; Moran turned just enough to follow Tate’s path from the corner of his eye.
He downed the rest of his wine, then snatched up both his and Jay’s glasses. “Refill, darling?”
Jay nodded and watched as Moran made his way over to the bar. The American was there, in the company of the two women he’d met at lunch. They had a slightly glazed look, less interested in whatever he was talking about and more interested that he was buying all the drinks.
Moran brushed past Tate as he approached the bar. His fingers dipped into the pocket of Tate’s track jacket.
They’d made a quick trip into town earlier that afternoon to buy two burner phones, both of them a close match to Tate’s. Moran slipped Tate’s phone from his pocket, then replaced it with one of the fresh burners—a decoy, in case Tate tried to check his phone before they were finished.
And then Bray was leaning over into Jay’s space with a disconcertingly attentive look. “He’s very handsome.”
Jay forced a tight smile onto his face. “Yeah.”
“And you’re both adorable.” Bray’s eyes were a little red around the edges; she sniffed, loudly. “Maybe that’s why Olivia had the affair. Maybe I wasn’t … affectionate enough, do you think?”
Jay was on his own, here—Moran was still at the bar. “I really don’t know.”
“I just—I can’t help it.” Ah, fuck. Bray was fully crying now. “The more I care about someone, the more I try to push them away, because—because it makes me feel weak, to need them that much. And then—and then they leave, and—”
The rest of the sentence dissolved into a wailing sob that cut right through the pleasant chatter of the dining lounge. The Russian made a soothing noise and reached across the table to pat her hand; this only prompted her to cry even harder.
People were staring.
Moran weaved his way back through the tables with a glass in each hand. He glanced at Bray, then met Jay’s eyes with a wide-eyed, baffled look.
Jay shrugged and shook his head. Whatever questions Moran had, there were no answers.
Moran settled back into his seat and placed Jay’s glass of water on the table, surreptitiously passing him Tate’s phone as he did so. Jay’s laptop bag was at his feet; he reached in and pulled out the second of the two burner phones. This one had a few extra features Jay had installed personally, which would monitor any calls or texts Tate made.
Working under cover of the table, Jay popped the SIM card out of Tate’s phone and transferred it into the bugged burner. This he passed to Moran, who tucked it into his pocket.
Bray’s sobs quieted to soft hiccoughs while the Russian murmured, “No, your mother is wrong. You are not unlovable.”
Moran had picked up his fork again. “You really should try this,” he said, gesturing to the dish on the table between them.
Jay regarded the fish with a dubious air. “I don’t like the way it’s looking at me.”
Moran chuckled and tossed his napkin over the fish’s head so its staring eyes were hidden from view. “Better?”
“A bit.”
Moran speared a piece of fish on his fork; it was tender enough that he didn’t need a knife. He held the piece out to Jay. “Come on.”
He couldn’t be serious. “I’m not hungry,” Jay said—a lie, but this was ridiculous.
“Jay.” Moran was insistent. “Man cannot live on steak bakes and bubble tea alone.”
With a defeated sigh, Jay leaned forward—careful not to bump his chest against the edge of the table—and let Moran feed him the forkful.
He was used to white fish being dry, but this was moist and delicate; just a hint of salt, despite the pile of it on the plate, and overlaid with the sharp, bright notes of lemon. Jay made an involuntary noise of surprise and pleasure.
A smile lit up Moran’s face. It wasn’t the mask he put on when he wanted something, or when he was being polite; this was open and naked in a way that made something flip over in Jay’s chest.
He dropped back into his seat too quickly. His elbow knocked the water glass, and it tumbled to the floor.
“Fuck,” Jay hissed.
Moran was already on his feet, gathering up the fallen glass; it was cracked, but hadn’t broken. “It’s all right. I’ll get you a new one.”
Right. The bar. The plan. Moran probably thought he’d spilled his drink on purpose.
Moran brushed past Tate again and twitched the decoy from his pocket. His fingers were just a little too clumsy as he produced the bugged phone—he nearly dropped it, and Jay winced, looking away.
A few tables away from the bar sat the young woman from room 262. Her eyes darted around the lounge with uneasy intensity, a stiff set to her shoulders as she picked at her meal.
Moran was back; he’d managed to slip the bugged phone into Tate’s pocket without fumbling it any further.
“The woman by the bar, in the glasses,” Jay said in a low murmur. “Did you see her?”
Moran settled into his chair and cast a casual glance across the room. “Young woman, travelling alone, looks anxious all the time.” He met Jay’s eyes. “You think she might be the target?”
Leave a Reply