Tom Hunter would never love her, but he was a good man who wouldn’t stop until he’d avenged Mercy and Gideon and saved the remaining innocents who were trapped in the cult.

“I think she understands more than we give her credit for,” Liza went on. “But at this point she doesn’t understand that it was sexual. She doesn’t understand the concept yet.” I hope. “Her therapist checked, because we were all worried about what Abigail knew.”

Mercy knew this. She’d talked to the therapist herself. But Liza knew that hearing it again, calmly stated, would do more to soothe Mercy’s anguish than all the platitudes in the world.

“You’re right.” Mercy drew a deep breath. “I need to apologize for shouting at her.”

“You want me to come with you?” Liza asked, brushing Mercy’s damp hair from her face.

“No.” Mercy managed a small smile. “I’ll tell her I’m sorry, then I’ll get cleaned up and we can go.”

“Tell Abigail that I still need to brush her hair. That’s why she went upstairs, to retrieve her hairbrush. She probably heard you crying and didn’t know what to do.”

Mercy’s nod was shaky. “Which means I really need to apologize now.”

Liza watched her go up the stairs, then returned to the kitchen, retrieved the cake from atop the refrigerator, and cut a generous slice for Abigail.

“Stress food, indeed,” she muttered, cutting an even larger piece for herself, leaving enough for Irina and Mercy. The day had to get better from here. It just had to.

Except she could hear Abigail crying upstairs and it ripped at her heart. The child had experienced enough fear and heartache for a lifetime. A particularly shrill wail pierced the air and Liza found herself gripping the edge of Irina’s counter, her knuckles white.

She’d heard wails like that before, not nearly long enough ago. From terrified and dying children. From wounded mothers clutching babies to their breasts, praying for a miracle to save their lives. The memory triggered what the army therapist had labeled PTSD. All Liza knew were the images crowding her mind, the ones that normally waited until sleep to torment her.

She glanced at the kitchen door, tempted to run. Run where, she wasn’t sure. Just . . . run. Away. As far and as fast as she could. She dropped her chin to her chest and focused on breathing. She’d promised Abigail that she’d go with them today, and the child needed a distraction. Some sense of normalcy.

No running. Not today.

Upstairs, Abigail wailed again, not at the same intensity or decibel level, thankfully. But it was enough to make Liza’s heart beat faster. Desperately she looked around Irina’s kitchen, then spied the mixer on the countertop, clean and ready to work. Irina had allowed her to bake in her kitchen in the past, so Liza knew where everything was.

Stuffing her mouth full of chocolate cake, Liza gathered the ingredients for her favorite stress recipe: Caramel-Pecan Dream Bars. Or brownies, as everyone not from Minnesota called them. She wouldn’t have time to finish them, but she could get the batter in the oven. Irina wouldn’t mind taking them out when the timer dinged.