“Oh. Then, yes, I can deal quite easily.”

“Even if the child is terminal?”

Liza froze for a few seconds, then exhaled as it hit her that her patient would be a real person—a real sick person—and not an FBI plant. “It wouldn’t be easy, but I could still deal.”

“Good. If we decide to hire you, when can you start?”

“As soon as you need me to.”

Sinclair stood, extending her hand. “Thank you for coming in. We plan to hire someone quickly, so I’ll be able to let you know fairly soon one way or the other.”

Liza shook her hand. “I’ll be looking forward to your call.”

Sinclair took her to the lobby, passing through a different series of hallways on the way out than they’d used on the way in.

Liza tried not to be obvious about looking into the patient rooms, but Sinclair noticed. “Apologies,” Liza said. “I’m not trying to be nosy. I’d like a feel for the layout and the kind of equipment you’re using here.”

“We have all the equipment you’ll find in any other facility,” Sinclair said proudly. “And if a patient needs what we don’t have, we get it.”

“Wow,” Liza murmured.

“Indeed. Well, here is the lobby, Miss Barkley. I hope you have a delightful afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

Liza walked to the visitors’ lot, where she’d parked Karl’s SUV, noting the cameras pointed in her direction. There were a number of them. There was also a tall iron fence with a gate behind it, which, according to Sinclair, was parking for employees and the families of their patients.

The atmosphere was every bit as oppressive and severe as the army base outside Kabul.

She pulled out of the parking lot, noticing a dark sedan pull into traffic behind her. It followed her all the way back to her apartment, not seeming to care that she noticed it.

It could be DJ, she thought. That would be bad.

Or it could be Sunnyside Oaks’s security staff, checking to see that she lived where she said she did.

Or it could even be the FBI. She hadn’t seen Tom in the sedan, but she wouldn’t put it past him to have followed her.

Regardless, she was glad for the relative anonymity of the apartment and Karl’s SUV. As soon as she was back in her apartment, she flopped onto the sofa and heaved out a relieved breath.

“So far, so good,” she muttered.

She checked her texts, expecting one from Tom, but seeing one from Mercy. Or, rather, from Abigail, who had used Mercy’s phone. It was an invitation to a sleepover tonight at Mercy’s. There would be nail painting, hair braiding, and makeovers. And ice cream.

The sleepover had been Mercy’s idea. Her friend had called her the night before when she’d been crying and eating rocky road. Mercy had floated the idea then.

Except that last night, she hadn’t been a part of a potential undercover operation. But if she backed out of this party, not only would she disappoint Mercy and Abigail but she’d raise a lot of questions that she didn’t want to answer. This had just gotten complicated.