And she couldn’t go home to deliver her baby, either, might never be able to go home. That was something else she’d been running away from, these last few days, sitting in this chair and staring out this window while her scalp wound healed. She didn’t want to face the knowledge that the faceless men her father worked with might never stop trying to kill her, even if Noah managed to destroy her father’s career and bring down the men paying him.
None of them might ever be able to go home again, not Jenna or Noah Armstrong or Ianira’s beautiful, precious family . . . And they didn’t even know where Ianira was, or what had become of her in the hands of the lunatic who’d shot Jenna down in cold blood. Jenna’s lips trembled and tears came again, a flood of them as bitter anger threatened to choke her. Somehow, her father was going to pay for this. All of this . . . She didn’t hear the first knock at her door and only looked up when someone cleared a throat and said, “Hey, mind if I come in?”
Jenna, eyes streaming, looked around. It was Noah Armstrong. The detective, still playing the role of Marcus’ sister, was dressed in a plain cotton skirt and worn bodice, leaving Armstrong’s gender even more a mystery than ever. Jenna couldn’t even bring herself to care. Noah lifted a tray with several slices of dried toast, a hot meat pie, and a steaming mug of tea. “I bought you something to eat.”
Jenna swallowed against the nausea any smell of food brought. She wasn’t hungry, hadn’t been hungry in so long, she’d forgotten what hunger felt like. “Thanks,” she made herself say.