of that was real. What was real was the child growing inside of her, as irreparably broken as her own heart.
And it was up to her, her mother, to be merciful, and to deliver her into grace.
Arabella, New Mexico—125 Miles to Albuquerque
Cait sneaked a glance at Rebecca. Her eyes were closed, her face turned toward the window. She looked so small in the Jeep’s seat, so frail . . .
Cait’s eyes trailed to the tape recorder under the dash. If she listened hard enough, she would swear she heard the gears whirring. What sort of person would plan something like that? An awful one. One who deserved all the shit life had thrown at her and then some. She was the traitor, not Rebecca. She’d misled this woman, maybe even put her in harm’s way. How could she know for certain that the man in the pickup truck wasn’t coming for Rebecca? There were enough people in this world who wanted to see her dead. More than enough.
She tried to imagine the moment when Lisa realized that Cait had picked up Rebecca for the drive, not Pat. She would be furious, rightfully so. Cait had let her down, badly, and had betrayed the trust that was central to the Sisters of Service. She had thought she’d been so clever, too. That was always her downfall. When would she realize that?
She’d been in the office with Lisa when the call had come in. She could tell right away that something was up by the way Lisa pivoted her body away as she bent over the phone. “Of course,” Lisa had said soothingly. “We guarantee anonymity.” Cait watched her scribble something down on a notepad and underline it twice. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve made arrangements,” Lisa said, and hung up the phone.
Cait’s journalism professor had stressed the importance of learning how to read upside down—“An invaluable way to glean information from unsuspecting subjects”—so she’d nearly had a heart attack when she read the name Rebecca McRae in Lisa’s precise writing. “Is that the Rebecca McRae?” she asked, but Lisa just shook her head and closed the notebook.
“Forget about it,” she said. “You know the rules.”
Of course she did. Drivers were prohibited from having personal connections with the clients. And her connection to Rebecca . . . well, it could definitely be described as personal in Cait’s eyes. Which was why, after Lisa returned Rebecca’s call to confirm that Pat would be driving her to the clinic in Albuquerque in a week’s time, she knew she had to act fast. When she first asked Pat to swap clients, Pat balked at the idea, but once Cait pointed out that her own drive was much shorter—just a routine one from the Austin suburbs to the clinic—and that Pat’s would be overnight . . . well, it didn’t take much more convincing. Cait promised she’d tell Lisa about the schedule change, but it conveniently slipped her memory.
Yes, her days with the Sisters of Service were definitely over.
She hated herself sometimes. She really did.
Rebecca’s eyes stuttered open. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Not long,” Cait said, glancing at the clock. “Maybe ten minutes or so.”
“Any sign of him?”
She shook her head. “Plain sailing so far. I think we’ll be in Santa Rosa pretty soon. We can figure out the route to Albuquerque then.”
“I really appreciate you doing this,” Rebecca said quietly. “I know I’m asking a lot of you to keep going. I honestly can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Cait said, flushing with shame. She didn’t deserve this woman’s gratitude, not after what she had planned.
“Well, I mean it. Thank you.” Rebecca stretched her arms above her head and let out a yawn. “Do you have any gum? I thought I had some in my bag, but I can’t seem to find it.”
“Sure, there should be some in that little cubbyhole under the dashboard.” As soon as she said it, a flash of white-hot terror. What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Rebecca’s hand reaching for the pack of gum in the cubbyhole. Her fingers brushing against the tape recorder affixed to the top of it. The look of confusion on her face as she pulled it free, and then the fear, and then the rage.
“Are you”—she shook her head, disbelieving—“are you recording us?”
Cait’s mind raced. There must be something she could say, some excuse, some story . . . but there was nothing. Just a