Page 48 of Locked and Loaded

He shook his head. "No."

"I'm not asking. I'm good at this. I was a forensic investigator for the DOJ. I know how to follow a money trail. I know how to⁠—"

"No," he repeated.

She slammed her palm on the table. The dishes rattled. "You can't keep me locked up here forever."

"I'm not planning to keep you locked up forever. I'm planning to keep you alive until I know who's trying to kill you and why." He met her eyes and held them. "After that, you can do whatever you want."

"That's not your decision to make," she shot back.

He held her gaze steadily. "Right now, it is."

They stared at each other across the table. The silence stretched, taut and humming, broken only by the distant sound of the medina waking up beyond the walls. A rooster crowed somewhere. A motorbike sputtered past. The palm fronds rustled in the courtyard.

Lennox looked away first. She hated that she looked away first.

"I need clothes," she snarled.

"There's a backpack in the front hall. I had some things delivered this morning."

She blinked. "You what?"

"Clothes. I didn't know your size, so I guessed. There's probably a few things that'll fit."

She stared at him. He'd had clothes delivered for her. Like it was nothing. Like he'd just assumed she'd be staying long enough to need them.

"You're very confident," she said.

He shrugged. "I'm prepared. There's a difference."

She stood up, suddenly needing to be out of the kitchen, out from under his steady gaze. "Where's the front hall?"

"Through the courtyard, past the pool, to the right of the main door."

She walked out without another word. But as she crossed the courtyard, her bare feet silent on the mosaic tile, her mind was already turning.

The front hall. Past the pool. To the right of the main door.

The main door. The one with the iron lock and the palm-tree key.

The key that was, most likely, in Dragan's pocket.

She found the bag exactly where he'd said it would be. A simple black backpack, the kind sold in every stall in the medina, stuffed with tissue paper and fabric. She crouched beside it and started pulling things out.

A pair of loose linen pants in a soft cream color. A white cotton blouse. A simple kaftan in pale blue with embroidery along the neckline. Jeans, t-shirts, and even a bathing suit. Undergarments, still in their packaging. A pair of leather sandals. A scarf printed with geometric patterns in blue and gold. There was even a hairbrush and a small bottle of something that smelled like rosewater when she uncapped it.

She sat back on her heels and stared at the pile of clothing.

His guesses about her size were spot-on.

It was thoughtful. Practical. It was exactly what she needed, and it made her want to scream, because every time she built up a good head of anger, he did something like this. Something that made it impossible to hate him cleanly.

She grabbed the clothes and stuffed them back into the backpack. The bathroom was a small alcove off the courtyard, tiled in the same blue and green mosaic, with a copper basin and a mirror that was spotted with age. She washed her face with cold water, scrubbed her teeth with a finger and some toothpaste she found on the shelf, and changed into the clean clothes. The pants were a little loose at the waist. The blouse fit perfectly. She braided her hair back from her face and used the scarf to tie it off.

When she looked in the mirror, she looked like a different person. Cleaner. Sharper. Ready.

She looked like someone who had a plan. Looks could be deceiving. She didn't have a plan yet. But the front hall had given her something more valuable than clothes. It had given her a glimmer of an idea. The main door was right there. The key was in Dragan's pocket. But he couldn't keep it in his pocket every second of the day. He had to shower. He had to sleep. He had to put it down somewhere, at some point, and when he did, she'd be ready.