Noah set the lunch tray on the table at Jenna’s elbow. As she choked down the first bites, the detective rested a hand on her brow. The gesture was so caring, Jenna’s eyes stung and the tears came again. She set down her fork and covered her face with her hands.
“Hey,” Noah hunkered down beside her, grey eyes revealing a surprising depth of concern, “what’s this? I won’t let anyone hurt you, kid. Surely you know that?”
Jenna bit her lip, then managed to choke out, “I . . . I know that. It’s why . . . I mean . . . everybody who ever cared about me died,” she gulped. “Noah, I’m so scared . . .”
“Sure you are, kid,” Noah said quietly. “And you’ve got every right to be. But look at this another way, Jenna.” Noah traced the line of fake whiskers down her jaw, brushed limp hair back from her brow, the gesture curiously gentle. “As long as you’re alive, as long as your baby’s alive, then at least a part of Carl’s still aliv e, too. And that means they’ve lost. They’ve failed to destroy the witnesses, failed to destroy quite everything you love.” Noah took her hand, rubbed her fingers and palm with warm fingertips. “You’re not alone, hear? We’re all with you in this. And we’ll need your help, Jenna. To find Ianira.”
Jenna looked up at that, met Noah Armstrong’s gaze. The concern, the steely determination to keep her alive gave Jenna a renewed sense of strength. She found herself drying her wet cheeks. “All right,” she said, voice low. “All right, Noah. I’ll do whatever it takes. Maybe we can try hunting the gentlemen’s clubs over in Pall Mall, find some trace of him that way. We have to find her.”