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“Maybe his conscience got the better of him.”

He turned toward me, eyes flat.

I shrugged, seeing something in his gaze that suggested he had witnessed more of the seedy side of life than I had realized. “Or maybe Aalia owns a handgun,” I said.

He sighed. “Then why the call from the stranger?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

“Couldn’t we have wondered that from the backseat?”

I examined him. Someone honked his horn and shouted an obscenity as he sped past in a convertible, but I barely noticed. It’s one of the many valuable skills I had learned since moving to L.A. “I think you protest too much,” I said.

He lowered one brow.

“I think you want to help her,” I said.

He snorted. “I’m just hoping to keep you alive until we test your backseat.”

I snorted.

“What did she say about a passport?” he asked.

I blinked. As it turns out, that was one of the few salient points I had neglected to tell him. Damn him and his coppie-sense. “What?” I said. See how I did that? Smooth as glass.

He was watching me evenly. “At the end of the conversation, I thought she said something about a passport.”

“Did she? Oh, yes,” I said, and wondered vaguely if people were still struck dead for lying or if their noses just grew like willow branches. “She said she got hers.”

“The sister.”

“Yeah.”

“Without her husband’s consent.”

I shrugged. “Things were better between them. Maybe they were planning to travel together.”

His brows lowered even farther. But before they could descend into hell, my phone rang. I gripped it like a lifeline, grateful for the interruption.

“Hello?”

“Christina.” Ramla sounded breathless. I was just wheeling into short-term parking at LAX. “She is here.”

“Aalia?”

“I have just received the call.”

I glanced nervously at Rivera. He was glaring again. Or still.

“From whom?”

“He did not say.”

“Did you ask?”

“He did not seem to wish to tell me.”

I heard Rivera swear. The same words zipped through my brain. I mean, I’m naturally the trusting sort, but folks have attempted to kill me a few times and that’s put something of a damper on my optimism regarding the inherent goodness of the human spirit.

“Why?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why do you think he wouldn’t tell you?”

“I do not know.”

“How much do you know about Aalia’s husband?”

“Ahmad? He comes from a favorable family.”

The same could be said of Ted Bundy. “Anything else?”

“The Orsorios are a wealthy, intelligent people. We thought it a fine match when first he asked for her hand. We had no way of knowing of his cruelty.”

I gripped my cell a little tighter as I pulled into a parking spot. “Do you happen to know if Ahmad has a passport?”

There was a long pause fraught with a butt-load of bad vibes. “He travels a good deal.”

“Beyond Yemen, I suppose you mean.”

“New York City. Washington, D.C. He is an important man with Sanaa Oil.”

“I see.” That in lieu of a bunch of bad language.

“And is not without friends among your government, I think.”

A little of the bad language leaked out.

“You are worried that it is he who called. That he hopes to confront those who would assist my sister,” she guessed.

“The thought crossed my mind.”

She drew a carefully controlled breath. “I will find another to care for my children and travel to the airport myself.”

It was tempting as hell to take her up on her offer, but her kids had eyes as big as softballs. They were like two-legged basset hounds at a sad movie. And besides, Ahmad wouldn’t recognize me. I hoped. The same couldn’t be said for Ramla.

“Don’t do anything just yet,” I said, then, “Did the stranger say what flight your sister is on?”

She told me.

“Can you describe her for me?”

There was a pause. “I cannot ask this of you, Christina. It is too big.”

“Describe her,” I said. My voice sounded gravelly, but when Ramla next spoke, her own was the reverent whisper of a terrified sister.

“She is beauty itself,” she said, “when the bruises heal.”

The butterflies in my stomach somehow morphed into land mines. My eyes met Rivera’s. His sparked amber-colored