In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(38)

Sam’s stomach twitched nastily, and his eyes flicked away from the dead man. “They talked to the DA,” he said. “Everybody’s okay with self-defense. It was self-evident, when they saw the shape Sveti was in.”

“Bet the DA wasn’t thrilled. Being tight with Big Daddy and all.”

“Drop it.” He was tense enough without thinking of his father.

“So, back to this girl,” Trish said. “I’ve read her anti-trafficking blog. Amazing. That’s one razor-focused woman. Nerves of steel.”

“Tell me about it,” he said bleakly. “Why the f*ck would these guys be interested in Sveti’s mother?”

“Maybe they weren’t.” Trish examined her fingernails. “Does she have emotional trauma associated with her mother?”

Sam paused. “Well, ah . . . it’s hard to find any significant aspect of her life that isn’t associated with emotional trauma.”

“Is that so? Huh. What’s with the mom?”

“Suicide. Jumped off a cliff into the Mediterranean six years ago.”

Trish nodded. “Okay, moving on. Other family?”

“Her dad was murdered by the Ukrainian mob,” Sam admitted. “Concurrent with Sveti being kidnapped by organ traffickers, held for the better part of a year. Rescued just in time. They’d sold her heart. She was on the slab when the cavalry stormed in.”

Trish’s mouth dangled for a moment. “Oh, my God, Sam.”

“But these people are all dead,” he repeated. “The dad, the mom, the mafiya vor. The traffickers themselves are in a maximum-security prison, monitored by her adoptive family. This stuff is dead and buried.”

“Except for inside of her,” Trish said.

“No,” Sam repeated. “She has no history of delusional thinking.”

“She was kidnapped, Sam! And tortured! You said they were drowning her in ice water! She could be excused for being delusional!”

Sam shook his head, his jaw set. Everything Trish was saying was true, reasonable, not even remotely offensive, and yet he wanted to swat it away from himself, as if she’d accusing Sveti of malicious lying.

“Sam, you need to face the facts,” Trish said.

“Just drop it,” he said, more sharply.

Trish’s eyebrows shot up. She twitched the cover over the body and zipped it up. “Whatever,” she said. “If we’re done, I need to scram.”

“Trish,” he said, his voice weary. “I’m sorry.”

She sighed and relented. “Come on, Sam,” she urged. “Let’s go. You need to get something to eat, get some rest. Relax. You’re wrecked.”

He followed her out. Eating or relaxing were not options. He was fried. Every time the day played in his head, ass-whomping chemicals dumped into his bloodstream, as fresh as they’d been this morning.

She looked back over her shoulder. “One detail eludes me. Why were you driving this girl home at dawn? Has your dry spell ended?”

He grunted sharply in answer. “Let’s leave it.”

Her keen blue eyes narrowed. “Ah. So it’s like that, is it?”

“I wish,” he said dully. “Not on her part.”

“I see. Sorry.” She stopped next to the exit. “What’s Tenly and Horvath’s take on the thug who questioned her in Ukrainian?”

“They think what you think,” he admitted. “Stress flashbacks.”

“It’s not like anyone blames her,” Trish said. “There’s no shame in it. I’d be in a padded cell if a tenth of her shit was mine.”

He was suddenly desperate to get out of the range of Trish’s measured, pitying gaze. “I’m out of here. Going to the hospital.”

“You might want to shower and change first,” Trish suggested. “You walk into a hospital looking like that, they might just admit you.”

Sam looked down. He’d scrubbed off the worst of the mud and soot, but the sweatshirt Tenly had loaned him was stained by his leaking bandage. The shallow trough of the bullet graze over the back of his hip burned, but he knew exactly how much worse a bullet wound could be. He wasn’t complaining.

“Sam?” she called after him.

Her urgent tone swung him around again. “What?”

“This thing, this girl . . .” Her voice trailed off. “It just sounds like a world of hurt.”

Sam was silent for a beat. “That’s a good definition of her world.”

“And you really want to go there? To live there?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way!” he said, defiant. “Her world can change! Anyone’s world can change, goddamnit!”

“And you want to be the one to change it?”

He waved that away. “Let it go, Trish.”

“Just remember. Everybody deals with their own shit. And if she heard our stiff speak Ukrainian, then face it. Her wires are crossed.”

“Our stiff wasn’t the guy who questioned her,” he shot back. “Our stiff was guarding the door. We don’t have the questioner. He’s still inside the smoking wreckage, remember?”

“And did you hear this masked questioner speak in Ukrainian? A multilingual guy like you could tell the difference between Ukrainian and Cantonese, even if you don’t speak either one yourself, right?”