Page 55 of No Hope of Rescue

“I get that request a lot,” he says. “White folks don’t care for a Black FBI agent. I’m just glad that’s not why you asked.”

Now I really like this guy. Perfectly timed, too, because his next request turns on the good cop/bad cop switch and makes my stomach clench. “Now, let’s speak with your sister, Mr. Weston.”

Chapter Sixteen

Riley Delgado

By the time Ross opens the door, Brock and I have established that Trent should refer to us by our first names. “It will be easier for Codie too. I don’t think she’s ever heard anyone refer to Riley as Ms. Delgado,” Brocks says, letting the agent pass through first.

Before we walked over, I’d stepped into the bathroom for a moment to pee and turned the volume way down on the burner phone before returning it to my back pocket. The last thing I needed was for that thing to go off and have to explain it to Brock and Ross—or worse, Agent Trent.

Now, standing in the main room, its weight is amplified in my pocket. I feel like I’m carrying contraband.

The breakfast Ross apparently served Codie sits on a bed tray on the kitchen counter, remaining mostly uneaten except for the center of the toast.

Brock turns to Ross. “Is my mom still—?”

Ross nods and points. Kelly’s door is shut.

“Should we be extra quiet?” asks Trent. “Keep our voices low?”

Brock shakes his head. “Mom could hear a pin drop when we were kids. Now she turns on the fan and is out. Not sure a fire alarm would wake her.”

“Let me go get Codie,” I say. “I don’t want her scared.”

Brock nods and I pad down the hall.

Tapping on the door, I open it and am startled to see how small she looks. It’s the array of pillows behind her. Kelly must have added more.

“Hey,” she says, her eyes large and round again. “Who’s out there?”

“Well, Brock, for one and you know Ross . . . ”

“He tried to make me breakfast. But the eggs tasted weird.”

I smile. “Don’t worry. He won’t take it personally.” I pause for a moment. “The other man is a really nice guy named Dylan Trent. He’s from the FBI.”

She blinks but makes no other reaction.

“A part that deals with the smuggling of historical artifacts.”

“Okay.”

I sit on the edge of the bed again, only this time I know what the secret is—or was.

“I didn’t tell him about the phone, just so you know. But this is against my better judgment,” I add. “I haven’t spoken to your brother yet either.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“No.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I’m too tired to deal with this” is all she says, and then she lies there, arms across her chest.

“I did give him a small artifact your brother and I nipped from the stash on the plane. Just to give him something.”

“Okay.”

“Listen,” I start. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to hand over the phone”—her head snaps up—“and I’m not going to until I talk to Brock. I’m having to think and rethink everything here.”