Page 33 of The Saint

He stopped in the middle of foot traffic. Commuters streamed by, jostling him as he impeded their flow. He couldn’t think. Sometimes, he didn’t think things through, but right then, he simplycouldn’t. He couldn’t see the play or the reasons why.He couldn’t see the answers or how to fix the problem. The unknown was infuriating. But more than that, the helplessness that had a stranglehold on him was enough to drive him mad.

He considered his options.His boss?Looping in Jared would be complicated—mostly because Boss Man would want to know why. Why did Camden care? Why had he maintained contact with Amelia? Then again, what did it matter if Jared had twenty questions? Boss Man was the one who’d sent him halfway across the world to be there. “I’ll call Jared Westin.”

Beth’s pause spoke volumes. “You’re not going to call Mr. Westin over some small-potatoes problem.”

Mr. Westin—that spoke even louder volumes. It wasn’t lost on Camden that his boss was one of those VIPs, but he’d become powerful without the glad-handing and ass-kissing that seemed ingrained in so many VIP types circulating in DC. It also helped that Jared scared most people. He was something of a military maverick who had connections and money and didn’t care about either as long as the job got done. “Watch me.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Amelia could barely eat. She hadn’t slept much as she sat in solitary confinement. Days and nights blurred as she grieved until she wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she’d been arrested. No one would tell her about Hailey, not even her attorney. Maybe Hailey wasn’t dead. Maybe everything was a misunderstanding.

Amelia knew only one thing without a shred of doubt. This place wasn’t a normal lockup facility. She hadn’t spent time in jail before, but that couldn’t be where police usually deposited criminals.

Then again, the police weren’t the ones that had arrested her. The FBI or the CIA or some alphabet-soup agency that didn’t have to name itself was responsible for that. Everyone she encountered acted as though she were a mix between a serial killer and a terrorist. No one looked at her. They didn’t speak to her. She hadn’t been housed with other inmates. Perhaps their treatment was standard operating procedure for introducing inmates to a new facility, but that didn’t feel right. Then again, the only situations she had to compare to were what she’d seen on television or in the movies.

Her attorney hadn’t said anything about her treatment. She didn’t know the man, and the man didn’t try to know her. He was simply a lawyer she’d connected with from a list of criminal law firms. Her attorney hadn’t listened to her pleas of innocence. He was all business and only wanted to explain the next step: an arraignment. They would be able to learn what evidence existed. Until he had more time to look into such things, he really wanted nothing to do with a conversation. So much for that huge amount of money she’d had to agree to as a deposit for services—that didn’t get her even a friendly smile.

The bolted lock on her door turned. The door swung open, and a female guard entered. She held a small package in her hands and eyed her warily.

“On your feet,” the guard said.

Amelia stumbled up.

“Let’s go,” she ordered.

Without asking where or why, she exited her cell. Another woman officer hovered close, holding a brown paper bag. She gestured for Amelia to walk farther into the dank hallway. Amelia trudged forward and, flanked by both guards, traversed the gunmetal-gray labyrinth until they ended up in a large, empty hallway that smelled of mold and mildew.

She walked on rubber mats until they entered a space where showerheads lined the far wall. It wasn’t the same bathroom as where she’d showered under a guard’s supervision before. Maybe they were transferring her to a new area where she would interact with others. Talking or bunking with others held no appeal.

“Get cleaned up.” The first guard offered the small package. “You’re out.”

“Out where?”

They didn’t answer. Amelia blinked and took the package, which was more like a paper bag than a box. The contents included a thin, paperlike towel, a comb, a bar of soap, a travel-size deodorant, and flimsy sandals bound up like a roll of quarters.

The other woman set the larger paper bag on a metal bench. “You’ve got three minutes.” She nodded to the bag. “Your clothes—time’s ticking.”

Amelia hadn’t realized she was waiting for privacy. Of course they wouldn’t give it to her. Each time she’d showered, it had been with an armed guard nearby. She tucked her chin to her chest and crossed the open space. Awkwardly, Amelia placedher toiletries next to the paper bag of her clothes and chose a shower to use. Humiliation curled through her as she stripped. The water was tepid at best.

“You don’t have all day.”

She ducked under the lukewarm spray and scrubbed the waxy soap from her hair to her toes. It didn’t suds but slipped over her skin, leaving a soapy film that had to be rubbed off with her hands. Despite her best attempts, her greasy hair wasn’t much cleaner than before she stepped under the water. She rubbed the bar of soap up from the nape of her neck and into the strands tucked behind her ears.

“One minute to be done and dressed.”

Amelia propped the soap on the tile that jutted out of the wall. It slid off. She tried again. It slid again.

“Pick up your crap. This isn’t a pigsty.”

“Trying.” She ducked out of the water and rushed to the bench. Shivers erupted over her skin as she placed the bar of soap on the bench. Amelia waited for a nanosecond to ensure it wouldn’t slide onto the floor then returned to the shower. Her thin sandals thwacked the wet tile floor as she rushed into the just-above-room-temperature spray of water and furiously scrubbed her hair free of sudsless soap.

“Towel off. Let’s move. We don’t have all day.”

“Trying.” Amelia turned off the shower and, chin ducked again, hurried to dry off with the paperlike towel. She pulled out clothes—herclothes—and a slice of hope pierced her chest as she pulled out the jacket and pajamas she’d worn when arrested.

Amelia struggled to pull clothes over her still-wet skin. Finally, she slipped her feet into her shoes. “What should I do with my stuff?” She gestured at the dirty clothes, soap, and poor excuse for a towel.

“Pick it up,” a guard said as though Amelia were an idiot. “Let’s go.”

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