Page 110 of The Saint

Esme reappeared with two men that had been tending to Amelia. She wasn’t sure how many days had passed since Esme left—definitely one, possibly two. Her captors had kept the motel room in a timeless, dayless state. She couldn’t tell whether they brought food in that morning or at night. But since Esme was there, she had questions.

“In the mood to chat?” Esme laid a long bag on the vanity where Amelia’s food was always set.

“Maybe.”

“Have you given any thought to what I had to say before?”

She had—more than she would admit to. Amelia’s mind was starting to play tricks as though her brain had mapped out a conspiracy theory with red strings tied to random thoughts and random words. It didn’t exactly make sense. She was grasping at straws or maybe decoding secret meanings. More likely, she was losing her grip on reality.

“And what do you think?” Esme extracted a long, slender rod from the bag.

She thought about food. Who paired a banana and chicken? And the non sequitur about the lighting? And was she a half-hearted fool? The words weren’t in the same order. They weren’t even the correct words, not exactly.

“You told me to trust you.”

Esme cackled and asked the men, “Has she told you anything?”

They shook their heads.

“Amelia, this is your last chance before this gets ugly. What did Jonathan and Hailey tell you?”

Nothing other than stupid words that would bring help. Banana. Light bulb. Chicken. Heart. “Nothing.”

Esme sighed. “Tie her hands behind her back.”

Amelia jerked away. “No—”

They manhandled her arms and twisted her wrists.

“Easy,” Esme snapped. “The only one who gets to make her cry is me.”

The men snorted and laughed and zip-tied her wrists behind a chair. Esme strode straight over and tipped Amelia’s head back. “Eyes on me.”

Tears leaked down Amelia’s cheeks. Esme wouldn’t look away. “Think, you stupid girl. What did Jonathan and Hailey tell you?”

Government secrets and covert instructions? None of that. They’d only given her four words that were supposed to save her. Amelia mouthedbanana.

Esme gave an imperceptible acknowledgment that she’d seen her lips move and maybe understood. She pinched her face. Esme’s nails pricked against her skin. “Did you say something?” Her lips curled with sinister anticipation. “Try that again.”

“Light bulb, chicken, heart.” Her whisper wasn’t audible. She was essentially saying gibberish.

Esme smacked her face away in disgust. “I’ll have the room now.”

The men snickered as they left. Then they were alone, and Amelia whispered hoarsely, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t talk to you until you figured me out. Otherwise, you might go screaming your head off.” Esme laid the rod on the bed and returned to her bag. “There’s a lot happening, and we’ll both be dead if either of us messes up.”

“My sister?”

Esme paused and turned her full attention to Amelia. “She didn’t mess up.” She blinked back tears. “I’m sorry.”

“She really is dead.”

Esme nodded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before.”

“Why?”

“A list of Russian sleeper agents disappeared. They had a good idea they’d fallen into American hands but hadn’t been able to pinpoint who.”

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