Chapter 6

Jennie

It takes all of my willpower to remain awake as I hear Lisa's breathing take on the even rhythm of sleep. My own eyelids feel heavy, my body lethargic from exhaustion and sexual satiation. All I want to do is close my eyes and let the comforting darkness swallow me, but I can't.

There's something I must do first.

I wait until I'm certain Lisa is asleep, and then I carefully wriggle out of her hold. To my relief, she doesn't stir, so I get up and find the robe that had fallen on the floor during sex.

Quietly putting it on, I pad barefoot into the bathroom. My stomach, still unsettled from dinner, roils with nausea again, and I have to swallow several times to keep the food from coming back up.

It's probably not the best idea to do this when I'm feeling sick. I know that—but I also know that if I don't do this now, I may not have the courage to attempt it later. And I need to do this. I need to fulfill my promise, to repay the debt I owe Jackson. It's important to me. I don't want to be the girl who can't take any action on her own, the wife who always lives in her wife's shadow.

I don't want to be Lisa's helpless little pet for the rest of my life.

Splashing cold water on my face, I take several deep breaths to quell my nausea and walk back into the bedroom. The shades are open just a sliver, but the moon is full tonight, and there's enough light for me to see where I'm going.

My destination is the dresser, on top of which Lisa's laptop is sitting. She doesn't always bring the computer into the bedroom, but she did tonight—which is another reason why I don't want to wait to implement my plan.

The plan itself is beyond simple. I'm going to take the laptop, access Lisa's email, and send the list to Jackson. If everything goes well, Lisa won't find out about this for a while. And by the time she does, it will be too late. I will have repaid my debt to Lisa's former security consultant, and my conscience will be clear.

Well, as clear as it can be knowing that Jackson will likely kill the people on that list in horrifying ways.

No, don't think about it. I remind myself that those people are responsible for the deaths of Jackson's wife and son. They're not innocent civilians, and I shouldn't think of them as such.

The only thing I should worry about at the moment is getting the list to Jackson without waking up Lisa.

I walk across the room as quietly as I can, my heart thumping heavily in my chest. When I reach the dresser, I stop and listen.

All is quiet. Lisa must still be asleep.

Biting my lip, I reach for the laptop and pick it up. Then I pause to listen again.

The room is still silent.

Exhaling slowly, I walk back toward the bathroom, cradling the laptop against my chest. When I get there, I slip inside, lock the door behind me, and sit down on the edge of the Jacuzzi.

So far, so good. Ignoring the churning in my stomach, I open the laptop.

A password request box pops up.

I take another deep breath, fighting my worsening nausea. I expected this. Lisa is paranoid about security and changes her password at least once a week. However, the last time she changed it was the day after Frank, Lisa's CIA contact, emailed her the list.

Lisa changed it when I was already hatching my plan—and I made sure I was nearby when she did so. I didn't stare at her laptop, of course. That would've been suspicious. Instead, I quietly filmed her with my smartphone while pretending to be checking my email.

Now if only I interpreted the recorded keystrokes correctly . . .

Holding my breath, I put in "NML_#042160" and hit "enter."

The computer screen blinks . . . and I'm in.

My breath whooshes out in relief. Now all I need to do is find the email from Frank, open the attachment, log into my own email, and send the list to the same email address that Jackson has been contacting me from.

Should be easy enough, especially if I can keep my dinner down.

"Jennie?" A knock startles me so much that I almost drop the computer. My lungs seize with panic, and I freeze, staring at the door.

Lisa knocks again. "Jennie, baby, are you all right?"

She doesn't know I have her computer. The realization causes me to start breathing again.

"Just using the bathroom," I call out, hoping Lisa doesn't hear the adrenaline-induced shakiness in my voice. At the same time, I open Lisa's email program and begin searching for Frank's name. "I'll be out soon."

"Of course, baby, take your time." The words are accompanied by the fading sound of footsteps.

I let out a relieved breath. I have a few more minutes.

I begin scanning through the emails containing the word "Frank." There are over a dozen from last week, but the one I want should have a little attachment icon next to it . . . Aha! There. Quickly, I open it.

It's a spreadsheet containing names and addresses. Automatically, I glance through them. There are over a dozen rows, and the addresses run the gamut from cities in Europe to various towns in the United States. One in particular jumps out at me: Homer Glen, Illinois.

It's a place near Oak Lawn, my hometown. Less than a forty-minute drive from my parents' house.

Stunned, I read the name next to the address.

George Cobakis.

Thank God. It's nobody I know.

"Jennie?" Lisa's voice is back, and the tense note in it makes my heart jump into my throat. Her next words confirm my fear. "Jennie, do you have my computer?"

"What? Why?" I hope I don't sound as guilty as I feel. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Frantically, I save the list to the desktop and open a new browser.

"Because my laptop is missing." Her voice is tight with the beginnings of fury. "Are you in there with it?"

"What? No!" Even I can hear the lie in my voice. My hands are beginning to shake, but I get to the Gmail page and begin putting in my username and password.

The doorknob rattles. "Jennie, open the door. Right now."

I don't respond. My hands are shaking so much that I mistype the password and have to put it in again.

"Jennie!" Lisa bangs on the door. "Open this fucking door before I break it down!"

I'm finally in my Gmail. My heart hammering in my chest, I search for the last email from Jackson.

Bang. The door shakes from a hard kick.

My nausea intensifies, my pulse racing as I find the email.

Bang. Bang. More kicks against the door as I click "reply" and attach the list.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I hit "Send"—and the door flies off the hinges, crashing to the floor in front of me.

Lisa is standing there naked, her eyes like dark slits in her beautiful face. Her powerful hands are clenched into fists, and her nostrils are flared, spots of color burning high on her cheekbones.

She's magnificent and terrifying, like an enraged archangel.

"Give me the laptop, Jennie." Her voice is frighteningly calm. "Now."

Bile rises in my throat, forcing me to swallow convulsively. Standing up, I walk over to her on trembling legs and hand over the computer.

She takes it from me with one hand and, before I can back away, wraps the other one around my right wrist, shackling me to her.

Then she looks at the screen.

I see the exact moment when she realizes what I did.

"You sent it to him?" Setting the computer down on the bathroom counter, she grabs my other arm and drags me closer to her. Her eyes burn with fury. "You fucking sent it to him?" She gives me a hard shake, her fingers biting into my skin.

My stomach somersaults, nausea washing over me in sickening wave. "Lisa, let go—"

And jerking out of her hold with desperation-fueled strength, I dive for the toilet bowl, just barely reaching it before I throw up.

"How long have you had this nausea?" Dr. Goldberg takes my pulse as I lie on the bed, with Lisa pacing around the room like a caged jaguar.

"I don't know," I say, my eyes tracking Lisa's movements. She's wearing a T-shirt and jeans now, but her feet are still bare. She's making circles in front of the bed, every muscle in her body taut and her jaw tightly clenched.

She's either still mad at me, or madly worried about me. I'm guessing it's a combination of the two. Within minutes of my throwing up, she had the doctor in our room and me bundled comfortably on the bed.

It reminds me of how quickly she acted when I got appendicitis on the island.

"I think I just ate something bad or maybe caught a virus," I say, turning my attention back to the doctor. "I started feeling sick at dinner."

"Uh-huh." Dr. Goldberg takes out a plastic-wrapped needle with a tube attached to a vial. "May I?"

"Okay." I don't particularly want him to take my blood, but I have a feeling Lisa won't let me refuse. "Go ahead."

The doctor finds a vein in my arm and slides the needle in while I look away. I'm still slightly nauseous and don't want to test my stomach's fortitude with the sight of blood.

"All done," he says after a moment, removing the needle and swabbing my skin with an alcohol-scented cotton ball. "I'll run the tests and let you know what I find."

"She's also constantly tired," Lisa says in a low voice, stopping next to the bed. She's not looking at me, which annoys me a bit. "And she's sleeping poorly, with the nightmares and all."

"Right." The doctor rises to his feet, clutching the vial. "I need to run this to my lab. I'll be back within the hour."

He hurries out of the room, and Lisa sits down on the bed, looking at me. Her face is unusually pale, a frown etched into her forehead. "Why didn't you tell me you were feeling sick, Jennie?" she asks quietly, reaching out to pick up my hand. Her fingers are warm on my palm, her grip gentle despite the turmoil I sense within her.

I blink in surprise. I thought she would question me about Jackson's list, not this. "It wasn't too bad at dinner," I say carefully. "I felt better after I took a shower and we . . . well, you know." I wave my free hand in a gesture meant to encompass the bed.

"We fucked?" Lisa's tense expression eases slightly, unexpected amusement flickering in her eyes.

"Right." Heat crawls up my body at the mental images her words bring up. Apparently, I'm not too sick to be turned on. "That made me feel better."

"I see." Lisa regards me speculatively, stroking the inside of my wrist with her thumb. "And you decided that since you were feeling so well, you were going to hack into my computer."

And there it is. The reckoning I anticipated. Except Lisa doesn't seem as angry as before, her touch on me soothing rather than punishing.

It looks like food poisoning—or whatever I've got—has its perks.

I offer her a cautious smile. "Well, yeah. I figured it was as good of an opportunity as any." I don't bother apologizing or denying my actions. There's no point. It's done. I paid my debt to Jackson.

"How did you know my password?" Lisa's thumb continues moving over my wrist in a circular motion. "I never told you what it was."

"I filmed you when you were changing it a few days ago. After I found out that Frank came through on the list."

The corners of Lisa's mouth twitch, almost imperceptibly. "That's what I thought. I was wondering why you were on your phone so much that day."

I lick my lips. "Are you going to punish me?" Lisa seems more amused than angry at the moment, but I can't imagine she'll let me off scot-free.

"Of course, my pet." There's no trace of hesitation in her voice.

My pulse jumps. "When?"

"When I choose." Her eyes gleam as she releases my hand. "Now, would you like some water or anything?"

"Some crackers and chamomile tea would be nice," I say on autopilot, staring at her. I'd expected this, of course, but I still can't help feeling anxious.

"I'll get that for you." Lisa gets up. "Be back in a few."

She disappears through the door, and I close my eyes, my earlier tiredness returning now that the adrenaline rush is over. Maybe I'll just catch a quick nap before Lisa comes back . . .

A knock on the door startles me again, causing me to jerk to a sitting position. "Yes?"

"Jennie, this is David Goldberg. May I come in?"

"Oh, sure." I lie back down, my heart still beating too fast. "Did you already run the tests?" I ask as the doctor enters the room.

"Yes." There is an odd expression on his face as he stops next to the bed. "Jennie, you've been fatigued lately, right? And unusually stressed?"

"Yes." I frown, starting to feel uneasy. "Why?"

"Have you noticed anything else? Mood swings? Atypical food cravings or dislikes? Maybe some tenderness in your breasts?"

I stare at him, a cold fist seizing my chest. "What are you saying?" The symptoms he's listing—surely he can't mean . . .

"Jennie, the blood tests I ran showed a strong presence of the hCG hormone," Dr. Goldberg says gently. "You're pregnant." He pauses, then adds quietly, "Given the timing of the implant removal, my best guess is you're about six weeks along."