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Once I’d gotten her name, I’d gone on a deep dive into her history. I knew that she had grown up on the streets for the most part. She’d dropped out of high school at the first opportunity and hadn’t turned back. There were only a few documented pictures of her as a child, but in all of them her face had been gaunt and her eyes sunken in, all indications of hunger and hardship. She’d lived a hard life and her current profession only built on that.
I had to swallow back a very deep instinctive need to protect her.
Her wariness seeped off of her in waves.
“Tell me about the safehouse,” I finally asked again.
“I didn’t know it was a safehouse,” she insisted.
“Don’t lie to me, little girl,” I warned.
“I didn’t! I thought it was just a rich family’s house with old money or something,” she exclaimed.
“If you don’t tell me the truth, Mila, things are going to get a whole lot harder for you,” I replied.
Her eyes opened as wide as saucers. Her pink tongue darted between her lips and her brow furrowed just the slightest bit as she tried to figure out what I could mean.
I gave her nothing.
“I swear. I didn’t know it belonged to you,” she said hurriedly.
“Who contracted you for the job?” I asked.
She didn’t answer me. Instead, her lips pressed into a thin line, and she stared down at the floor.
With a sigh, I walked over to her. She flinched and tried to cover it up, but I’d seen it anyway. I grasped her upper arm and walked her over to the desk.
“The hard way it is then, little girl.”
