Mouths sagged open, even Malcolm’s. The silence was so profound, Skeeter could hear a clock somewhere out in Spitalfields strike the hour, its ghostly notes singing through the cold October air. Then Jenna swayed and Noah Armstrong hurried to help her to the nearest chair, guiding her with a tender look and gentle hands. Clearly, Noah Armstrong was anything but a murderous terrorist. Skeeter found his voice first.
“Miss Caddrick, your father is threatening to shut down the station unless you’re brought back.”
Shocking hatred blazed from her eyes. “If I could, I’d put a bullet through his skull!” Even as she spoke, fury transmuted into terrible grief. Jenna covered her face with shaking hands and began to cry, raggedly and very messily. Ianira produced a handkerchief and sat down beside her, sliding an arm around her shoulders. Jenna groped for the handkerchief and struggled to regain her composure. “I’m sorry,” she whispered through hiccoughs. She finally blotted her cheeks, then looked up, shoulders slumped, face haggard with too much fear and far too little sleep.
Malcolm suggested gently, “Why don’t you tell us your story, Miss Caddrick? I suspect Mr. Jackson, here, knows more of it than the rest of us do, but Miss Smith and I know enough to realize that we’re facing a very serious threat.”
Jenna rubbed reddened eyes with the backs of her hands, clutching Ianira’s sodden handkerchief, then drew a deep, unsteady breath. “Yes. I literally don’t know how many people have already died because of what we know. Noah and I, that is. And now Marcus and Ianira.” She drew a second watery breath and met Malcolm’s gaze. “Guess I ought to start with proper introductions? This is Noah Armstrong, a private detective with the Wardmann-Wolfe Agency.”