When she nodded, Acosta asked, “Are you joining the other women at the shelter here?”

“No, I’m staying with a friend.” All she wanted at this point was to leave every thought of the Patriot Zealots behind. Seeing the others would bring it back. “Frankie should be picking me up soon.”

“Frankie is picking you up now,” came from the doorway. “Hi, agents.”

The two men smiled at Frankie—as most men did.

Curvy, with thick dark hair and big brown eyes, the New Yorker just plain liked people—and everyone liked her back.

“I’m glad you’re looking better,” Acosta said to Kit and laid a card on the table. “Call us if you think of anything we should know or if you have any concerns.”

“Thank you. I will.”

As the two men strode out of the small garden, Frankie walked over. “I heard the Feds say they found Obadiah’s body. Are you okay?” She bent to give Kit an abbreviated, ever-so-gentle hug that comforted without hurting any broken ribs.

There were days Kit felt like a sack of brittle twigs. One that a draft horse had stood on. Twice.

But she was healing.

“I already knew Obadiah was dead.” Even before Rescue’s Chief of Police had told her. Because she’d seen Hawk’s face after. Seen his haunted eyes. Killing Obadiah had wounded his soul.

Lifting her chin, Kit smiled to ease Frankie’s worry. “I’m packed and ready for you to break me out of this place.” Aric would be waiting. “Is this rescuing stuff turning into a habit?”

“Oh, no, amica mia. I’m keeping track and figuring on lots of return favors.” Frankie chuckled and motioned toward the door. “Next time, you can save me.”

The uncomfortable itch of feeling like she’d gotten charity faded. “Absolutely. I get to be the rescuer next time.”

On the way out, the staff of the facility hugged her and wished her a good recovery.

Barely one step outside the facility, Kit’s muscles tensed as she quickly checked the area for men. No men, no PZs. Just a parking lot with Frankie’s new SUV parked near the door.

Right. It was starting to feel as if her body might heal before her mind did.

Frankie opened the passenger door for her, then stowed the suitcase in the back.

Trying not to groan, Kit eased in. Ow, ow, ow. The physical therapist had warned that there was no way to get into a vehicle without twisting the torso at least a little.

Once in the seat, she focused on breathing as the pain in her ribs eased from I’ve-been-stabbed to merely a painful throbbing.

“Poor baby.” With a sympathetic look, Frankie buckled Kit’s seatbelt for her before driving out of the lot. Once out of Anchorage, they were on the road to Rescue, a small town on the Kenai Peninsula.