“You also said I could use you and your people to back up any professional references I chose to invent,” I continue. “I made up a career history, one that qualified me for a personal assistant position. I didn’t try to convince an employer that I passed the bar or went to med school. I didn’t tell a property development firm that I knew how to build a building that could withstand a storm. I chose not to apply for a job where my lack of real qualifications could lead to someone dying or spending their life in prison. So what exactly is your problem?”

I can see the beginning of a smile pulling on the edges of Micah’s lips. “Here you are, in a confined space, surrounded by men with guns, and you’re giving me attitude. Like I said, you lack a healthy fear of death.”

I flinch slightly at that. I don’t want to die. Not yet. In a month or two . . . maybe. Maybe someday soon I’ll see death as a relief. But that’s later. After I do the things I need to do. After I get my mother justice.

Still, if I must die now, I refuse to spend my last minutes on earth kissing the asses of the men who are going to kill me. I simply will not do it. And so I can’t help but be emboldened by the futility of my situation.

Micah powers down my phone and slips it into his jacket pocket. “I would have understood . . . if you had wanted to pretend to be a lawyer or a doctor. I would have counseled against it,” he says with a light laugh. “But still, I would have understood. You’ve always struck me as a go-big-or-go-home girl. I respect that. But a personal assistant? Not your style, Sweet. So I got a little worried.”

Javier shifts slightly in his seat so that now his leg is lightly touching mine. The noxious quality of my own vulnerability is overwhelming. These two men could do anything to me. And all I can do is curse them until they cut out my tongue.

“I was so worried,” Micah continues, “that I thought maybe you were under duress of some kind . . . or maybe you had lost your senses. So, out of concern, I assigned you a . . . a secret chaperone.”

“A chaperone,” I repeat.

“Yes, just someone to follow you at a discreet distance to make sure that you were all right. Don’t worry, they weren’t following you every day. You’re not that high on my priority list . . . But you can imagine my surprise when I discovered that you’re not only working for Travis Gable but also ‘dating’ his brother, Lander.”

“I can date who I please.”