Turning the car, she drove back down the road, suppressing the urge to peel out and splatter mud and rocks over the hut and stupid guard.

So much for her idea that she could just make noise and get Kit and Aric out.

Once around the bend of the road and out of sight, she pounded her fist on the steering wheel hard enough to hurt her hand. “Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!”

Her Italian grandmother would’ve had a fit at such swearing. Women didn’t use the f-word—no matter what language. Then again, there had been that summer when the nasty rooster spurred Nonna, and Frankie’d learned a whole bunch of new Italian swear words.

The rooster had made an excellent escarole soup, and the experience taught Frankie a valuable lesson—a sweet personality could exist side-by-side with a steely core.

With a grunt, Frankie sat back. The swearing might relieve stress but didn’t offer any solutions.

She pulled out onto Dall Road and headed back to Rescue. Contacting Kit would be difficult with that no visitors rule and no way to get a message into the place. For all Frankie knew, Kit might not even be in that—that compound. The cult compound.

However, those Zealot members must visit town, sooner or later. For groceries, mail, gas. Or…maybe to go to a bar?

She tapped her fingers on the wheel. Being discreet would be essential while making inquiries about the cult.

Obtaining information and coming up with a safer plan might take a while. So…how to keep from sticking out like a sore thumb in the tiny town? The gas station owner had said this was the dead month for tourism. Ski season was over, and the fishing was just starting to pick up.

Not that I resemble a fisherman, anyway. Cooking fish? She was a pro. Catching? No. Absolutely not. Pretending to be a tourist would be her last resort.

She might need to find a job to blend in. If the summer season was starting soon, they’d be hiring, right?

Even weird cult types had to buy food. They’d talk to clerks and salespeople. Being all self-sufficient and stuff, they probably didn’t go to restaurants. Did religious conservative types go to bars? Kit had told her that Obadiah didn’t drink.

She’d better try for salesclerk jobs.

Hmm. What if she ran into Obadiah? Would he recognize her?

She pulled on her lip. Nah, probably not. The only time she’d met him was a moment in the reception line after his and Kit’s wedding ceremony. He’d already been swamped with introductions to all of Kit’s co-workers at the garden nursery. Honestly, why hadn’t Kit seen that as a big red flag—that the guy hadn’t made the effort to meet any of her friends?

No way would Obadiah remember her face.