Smart man that he was, he’d realized there was a problem almost instantly and pressed the button for the next floor, where she shoved through the grumbling crowd and escaped as soon as the doors opened.

That had been one of her most mortifying moments.

But he hadn’t made a big deal out of it. He’d simply said everyone had their foibles and moved on. And later, when she’d told him the story about the trunk in the attic, he’d listened with his usual empathy and pulled her into a hug after she finished.

One of the many reasons she’d fallen in love with him.

One of the many reasons she still loved him.

That was the truth of it.

Hard as she tried to pretend she’d insulated herself from his warmth, she—

“Cate?” Kayla touched her arm.

She forced herself to shift gears. There were more pressing issues to deal with at this juncture than romance.

Like their predicament—and her claustrophobia.

In view of the circumstances—and her roommate’s perceptiveness—trying to keep her phobia a secret was foolish.

She swallowed. “I have claustrophobia.”

“Oh, geez.” Distress darkened Kayla’s irises as she gave the small space a sweep. “This is the wrong place to be.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Are you going to freak out?”

“You mean more than I already have?”

“I’ve seen freaked. You don’t look freaked. More like super anxious.”

“You should see me inside. But I have it under control.”

Sort of.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Keep me distracted.”

“Okay—let’s talk about tonight. I can’t figure out what’s going on, can you? I mean, why would Reverend Wilson bring us here . . . at gunpoint? Why would he threaten to kill us? That’s not the man I’ve known all these years.”

“He’s the same man, Kayla—but he’s been leading two lives. You saw the public life.” Cate took her hand. “The truth is, he’s a drug dealer—or worse. He could be the head of the largest drug ring in St. Louis.”

The girl’s eyes popped. “No.”

“Yes. It’s true.”

Kayla tugged her hand free and pulled the sleeping bag tighter around her. As if the thermal filling could insulate her from the truth. “How would you know that?”

Here it came.

“Because I came to Ivy Hill undercover to investigate Stephanie’s disappearance—and Mr. Martinez was there undercover for the DEA to investigate a connection between the school and a Mexican drug cartel pipeline that feeds the St. Louis market. Our cases ended up intersecting.”

Not a sound penetrated the stone walls of the cistern as Kayla gaped at her.

Ten seconds ticked by.

“You’re a cop?”

“Detective.”

“Oh, man.” She lifted her chin and regarded the domed ceiling.