“Peter…” My voice is low and soothing, like I’m talking to a wild animal. I can see Rosa and Ana in the doorway, looking terrified, and I try to diffuse the situation. “Peter, I’m not taunting you—I’m just pointing out the facts. I want to help you, but first you need to help me.”

He glares at me, his chest heaving with rage, and I see him struggling to regain control. I’m shaking on the inside, but I keep my gaze steady on his face. Don’t show fear. Whatever you do, don’t show fear. To my intense relief, his breathing gradually begins to slow, the fury twisting his features ebbing as he brings himself back from whatever dark place his mind was in.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a few moments, his voice strained. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” He takes one deep breath, then another, and I see his usual controlled mask sliding into place. “How do I know you’ll be able to keep your promise about the list?” he says in a more normal tone of voice, his anger seemingly gone. “You’re asking me to do something that Esguerra will hate. How do I know he’ll come through with the list if I do this?”

“I will make him give it to you.” I have no idea how I can make Julian do anything, but I don’t let any of my doubts show. “I swear to you, Peter. Help me with this, and you can have your revenge before your three years here are up.”

He stares at me, and I can practically feel his internal debate. He knows my arguments are sound. If he does what I ask, he stands a chance of getting that list of names sooner. If Julian dies, he won’t get the list at all.

“Fine,” he says, apparently reaching a decision. “Get ready then. We’re leaving in an hour.”

When we land in a small airport near Chicago, there is a thick layer of snow on the ground, making me grateful that I decided to wear my old Uggs. It’s already evening, and the wind is bitterly cold, biting through my winter coat. I barely register the discomfort, however, all my thoughts consumed by the ordeal to come.

There is no bulletproof car waiting for us. Nothing to draw attention to our arrival. Peter calls a taxi for me, and I get into the back of the car by myself, while he heads back to the plane.

The driver, a kindly middle-aged man, tries to chat me up, likely in the hopes of figuring out who I am. I’m sure he thinks I’m a celebrity of some kind, arriving on a private jet like that. I give monosyllabic responses to all his questions, and he quickly catches on to my desire to be left alone. The rest of the drive passes in silence as I stare out the window at the night-darkened roads. My head pounds from stress and jet lag, and my stomach roils with nausea. If I hadn’t forced myself to eat a sandwich on the plane, I would probably be passing out from exhaustion.