Page 81 of Rescuing You

“Who was that guard talking about?” Leila asked. “Who would have you killed?”

Jasmine dropped her hand and turned away. “It doesn’t matter. We are leaving them behind.”

“It does matter, sister.”

Jasmine stared forward. In the dim lights from the parking lot, Leila saw a depth of sorrow she’d never seen on her sister’s face.

Had Baba really become so cruel that he would murder his own daughter?

No. She couldn’t believe that of her father. So, somebody else?

She willed Jasmine to speak the truth, no matter how awful. Trust me, she thought. Tell me.

Jasmine licked her lips, and they parted. She turned to face her again. “There is some⁠—”

The door swung open. “Thanks for waiting,” Michael said. “You two ready?”

Jasmine hurried to climb out and slammed the door, closing Leila in the truck—and her words in her mouth.

Frustrating, but Jasmine would tell her eventually. They’d never been able to keep secrets from each other for long.

A few minutes later, they were on the road, Jasmine in the back, explaining that she wanted to lie down, Leila in the passenger seat beside Michael.

He still wasn’t speaking to her—not unless she counted, “Get whatever you want” and “You need to eat.”

But after Jasmine fell asleep, Michael reached across the console and took Leila’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong.” They kept their voices low to keep from waking Jasmine.

“I was rude. I was too angry to talk for a few minutes.”

A few minutes? Try an hour. More than an hour.

They’d left the streetlights behind again, and only the dim glow from the dashboard lit his face, illuminating the sharp angles in a strange yellow light. But judging by his voice, he didn’t sound angry now.

“I wasn’t only angry,” he added. “I was scared. For my friend.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. “That wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Wasn’t it? But with Michael holding her hand, a little of the weight that’d settled on her shoulders slipped off.

“There was a man back there.” She needed the answer to one question, a question that’d been pricking her thoughts since they’d escaped that murderous alley. One she’d dared not to speak. But she could wait no longer. “He is tall and thick with a beard and mustache. He wore a keffiyeh. He was in the van when we left and then climbed out when it stopped. Is he… Did you kill him?”

Michael turned narrowed eyes toward her. “Who is he?”

She should tell him. She wanted to tell him everything. He deserved to know everything. But she was so tired, and she didn’t want to think about it anymore. “There is a long story, and I want only to rest and feel safe for a few minutes. This is so bad? To rest from it?”

“Telling me his name will keep you from resting?”

Maybe, depending on how he reacted. It certainly wouldn’t be a short conversation. “Telling you now will be so much better than telling you tomorrow?”

Michael exhaled, loudly. “He took off toward Splat. Your friend shot him in the leg.”

“Not my friend.”

“If Splat got him back or not”— Michael glanced her way, watching her reaction—“I don’t know.”