“Of course.” I smile back at her, ignoring the slight squeezing in my chest. I know what’s behind their desire to leave, and it’s not their jobs or their friends. Despite all the comforts here, my parents feel confined, hemmed in by the watch towers and the drones circling over the jungle. I can see it in the way they eye the armed guards, in the fear that crosses their faces when they pass by the training area and hear gunshots. To them, living here is like being in a luxurious jail, complete with dangerous criminals all over the place.

One of those criminals being their own daughter.

“We should go inside and pack,” my dad says, rising to his feet. “I think it’s best if we fly out first thing tomorrow morning.”

“All right.” I try not to let his words sting me. It’s silly to feel rejected because my parents want to return home. They don’t belong here, and I know it as well as they do. Their bodies might’ve healed from the bruises and scratches they sustained during the car chase, but their minds are a different matter.

It will take more than a few hours of therapy with Dr. Wessex for my suburban parents to get over seeing cars blow up and people die.

“Do you want me to help you pack?” I ask as my dad drapes a towel around my mom’s shoulders. “Julian’s talking to his accountant, and I don’t have anything to do before dinner.”

“It’s okay, honey,” my mom says gently. “We’ll manage. Why don’t you take a swim before dinner? The water’s nice and cool.”

And leaving me standing by the pool, they hurry into the air-conditioned comfort of the house.

* * *

“They’re leaving tomorrow morning?” Rosa looks surprised when I inform her of my parents’ upcoming departure. “Oh, that’s too bad. I didn’t even have a chance to show your mom that lake you were telling them about.”

“That’s okay,” I say, picking up a laundry basket to help her load the washer. “Hopefully, they’ll come visit us again.”

“Yes, hopefully,” Rosa echoes, then frowns as she sees what I’m doing. “Nora, put that down. You shouldn’t—” She abruptly stops.

“Shouldn’t lift heavy things?” I finish, giving her an ironic smile. “You and Ana keep forgetting that I’m no longer an invalid. I can lift weights again, and fight and shoot and eat whatever I want.”

“Of course.” Rosa looks contrite. “I’m sorry”—she reaches for my basket—“but you still shouldn’t do my job.”

Sighing, I relinquish it to her, knowing she’ll only get upset if I insist on helping. She’s been particularly touchy about that since our return, determined not to have anyone treat her any differently than before.

“I was raped; I didn’t have my arms amputated,” she snapped at Ana when the housekeeper tried to assign her lighter cleaning tasks. “Nothing will happen to me if I vacuum and use a mop.”

Of course that made Ana burst into tears, and Rosa and I had to spend the next twenty minutes trying to calm her down. The older woman has been very emotional since our return, openly grieving my miscarriage and Rosa’s assault.

“She’s taking it worse than my own mother,” Rosa told me last week, and I nodded, not surprised. Though I’d only met Mrs. Martinez a couple of times, the plump, stern woman had struck me as an older version of Beth, with the same tough shell and cynical outlook on life. How Rosa managed to remain so cheerful with a mother like that is something that will always be a mystery to me. Even now, after everything she’s been through, my friend’s smile is only a bit more brittle, the sparkle in her eyes just a shade less bright. With her bruises nearly healed, one would never know that Rosa survived something so traumatic—especially given her fierce insistence on being treated as normal.

Sighing again, I watch as she loads the washer with brisk efficiency, separating out the darker clothes and placing them into a neat pile on the floor. When she’s done, she turns to face me. “So did you hear?” she says. “Lucas located the interpreter girl. I think he’ll go after her after he flies your parents home.”

“He told you that?”

She nods. “I ran into him this morning and asked how that’s going. So yeah, he told me.”

“Oh, I see.” I don’t see, not in the least, but I decide against prying. Rosa’s been increasingly closemouthed about her strange non-relationship with Lucas, and I don’t want to press the issue. I figure she’ll tell me when she’s ready—if there’s anything to tell, that is.

She turns back to start the washer, and I debate whether I should share with her what I learned yesterday . . . what I still haven’t shared with Julian. Finally, I decide to go for it, since she already knows part of the story.

“Do you remember the pretty young doctor who treated me at the hospital?” I ask, leaning against the dryer.

Rosa turns back toward me, looking puzzled at the change of topic. “Yes, I think so. Why?”

“Her last name is Cobakis. I remember reading it on her name tag and thinking that it seemed familiar, like I’d come across it before.”

Now Rosa looks intrigued. “And did you? Come across it, that is?”

I nod. “Yes. I just couldn’t remember where—and then yesterday, it came to me. There was a man by the name of George Cobakis on the list I gave to Peter.”