“Do you know anyone who can contact England to get you back home?” His thumb caresses my belly, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“No. Not if what the agent who double-crossed my network said is true. I only knew two or three members at most, and it’s impossible for me to contact them now, even if they haven’t been arrested.”
If the Gestapo got their hands on a wireless-radio crystal and the operator’s key codes, Baker Street might have no idea the network has been corrupted.
If we’re lucky, Baker Street will recognise that the operator’s signature doesn’t match their normal one. Each operator signature is as unique as their fingerprints. If someone is masquerading as a wireless operator from the network, Baker Street could figure it out. But if it doesn’t…if for some reason they ignore the irregularities, thinking it’s just the operator’s mistake…
I don’t want to think of the repercussions. For now, I’m stranded in an occupied country, pregnant, and the Gestapo is searching for me. They are relentless hunters, and things won’t go any easier if they find out I’m pregnant.
That will only make the game of taunting their prey more enticing.
25
JESSICA
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
My front doorbell rings.Simone, Zara, and I are sitting at the kitchen table, playing a game of Go Fish. The protesters’ chants outside my living room window seem to have gotten louder in the past few minutes.
Inwardly groaning at the noise, I push to my feet.
Zara’s dark eyebrows pull together into a worried frown. “I can get it.”
“That’s okay. I doubt it’s one of the protesters.” I hope it isn’t someone getting ready to hurl something at me. Except if they did, that would be considered an act of trespassing and assault, which might result in the Maple Ridge police actually doing something about the protesters.
Bailey walks with me to the front door.
I peer through the peephole. Cora is standing on the front stoop, wearing a short-sleeved peach dress. Her blond hair is gleaming and straight, hitting just below her shoulders. And in her hand…is a microphone.
She’s not alone. A TV cameraman stands to the side, his lens pointing at her face. She nods at him, says something I can’t hear through the closed door, and plasters a smile on her face. There’s nothing genuine about it.
I deliberate for a moment what to do, but the anger that once lay dormant when I was too scared to face my husband unfurls from its slumber and stretches its talons. I open the door, not bothering to fix a smile on my face.
“Hi, Savannah.” Cora’s smile grows wider like we’re old friends. There’s not an ounce of remorse in her expression for what she did to me. “You were released from Beckley State Correctional Institution just over five months ago after your sentence was revoked. How does it feel to be declared wrongfully accused after spending five years in prison?”
Is she. Fucking. Kidding. Me?
“Why the hell do you think I have anything to say to you? Is that why you sold me out?” I nod at the man with the camera. “So you’d get a job promotion? You don’t care who you hurt in the meantime. You’re a selfish, self-absorbed monster who would sell your niece to the devil himself if it meant getting what you want. No wonder your ex-husband cheated on you,” I say, unable to keep the hurt and anger from spewing into my next words. “He wanted to be with a woman who had more morals and integrity than you.”
All right, not my finest retort, but there aren’t enough words in the English language to relay how I feel right now.
I look beyond her shoulder, and my stomach plummets down a hundred-foot drop. Cora isn’t the only reporter here. She’s just the first one to make it to my front door.
Multiple vans belonging to various media outlets—national and local—are parked on the street or are pulling into whatever space they can find.
Reporters and camera people scramble from the vans in their haste not to miss anything I have to say. They hurry up the sidewalk to join Cora, a wake of starved vultures.
And I’m about to become their next meal.
I slam the door in Cora’s face.
Oh, God.What do I do now?
The protesters were bad enough, but now the reporters have tracked me down.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
