Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

W hen Derrick ended the call in the other room, Jasmine tiptoed to the bed, ashamed of her eavesdropping.

She'd learned to slink about like a mouse, making no noise and taking up as little space as possible. After she and Baba left Baghdad and moved to the compound, especially after she'd been joined to Khalid, she'd learned the wisdom of going unnoticed.

But she'd always listened, seeking to understand what the men were doing and thinking and feeling, knowing that the more she did, the more she could anticipate their demands. She'd learned to discern the emotional tenor in a room so she could slip away quickly, before anyone got angry. Before she could become a target or a scapegoat.

In this way, Jasmine had protected herself.

She hadn't felt the need to do that with Derrick before today, but now she dared not face him.

So she'd listened at the door like a spy.

Apparently, Derrick was satisfied that Michael would help them because he gave his brother the address of the hotel. She wished she knew everything Michael had said, but she had no courage to ask.

She set down her phone. Still no word from Basma. Though Jasmine felt too keyed up to sleep, she finished getting ready for bed and crawled between the sheets beside Rabie. She curled onto her side, away from him, replaying all the tender things Derrick had said to her. He'd called her courageous. He'd called her sweetheart .

He'd told her he loved her.

Tears wet her pillow. If only she could give in to what she felt inside. If only she could be who Derrick wanted her to be.

But she could not, and to wish it was more than foolishness. It was torturous.

She tried to give all her errant, inappropriate feelings to the Lord, though she felt herself snatching them back, one by one. Feelings were not grains of rice one could simply flick away. They clung like grime, impossible to remove without painful scrubbing and stinging bleach.

How did one bleach a soul?

Stupid, silly thoughts from a stupid, silly woman.

She flipped onto her other side, hoping a change of posture might change the direction of her mind.

Rabie's curly brown hair was a mop against the white pillow. His eyes were closed, the lashes brushing his cheeks. In sleep, his expression was peaceful and unafraid. His little hands were pressed together as if in prayer, tucked beneath his head.

He was precious. He didn't belong to her, and she only felt responsible for him because she loved Basma like a sister. Even so, Rabie was precious.

In her midsection, she felt the strangest tickle, soft as a bubble. Not painful, barely discernible.

She shifted to her back and pressed her palm against her abdomen .

She was nearly five months pregnant now. Dr. Wright—he insisted she call him Roger, but it felt wrong to do so—had told her she might start to feel it moving soon.

Was that what she'd felt? The child?

She had not wanted it. Every time Khalid had come to her, she'd silently prayed she wouldn't conceive. God had refused her—why did this surprise her?—and here she was, married, pregnant, and on the run.

Drawn to a man who was not her husband. Carrying a child she would have to give birth to and provide for and raise, all alone.

But the feeling came again, the slightest movement inside. A tiny life, making itself known.

Here I am, Mama.

Do you not love me?

Jasmine's tears started again.

Not an it. Not just the child. Her child. Her baby.

Like Rabie, Jasmine's baby had no control over who his family was or how they behaved. Like Rabie, her baby was precious.

And it was Jasmine's job to protect him. Hers, and nobody else's. Not just to protect him, but to love him.

She would not do what her parents had done. It didn't matter who her baby's father was. If she had the freedom to be in her baby's life, she'd love him.

Or her.

Let it be a girl, Lord.

A girl who resembled her, not like Khalid.

But even if the baby was a boy, and even if he looked just like his father, and even if he had many of his father's traits, he didn't have to be like the man who'd fathered him. He didn't have to be a terrorist. He didn't have to be evil. Those were choices, and her child could be raised to make good choices. He could be raised to know the truth and love God. He could be raised to be a good man, like Derrick and Michael and the other men in the Wright family.

If only Jasmine could stay hidden.

What was she doing here?

What foolishness had driven her so far from Shadow Cove and safety? Was this how she planned to protect her baby? By putting herself in danger?

What a fool she was.

For the first time since she'd received Basma's email, she understood the enormity of what she'd done.

With Derrick, she'd glossed over the danger that coming to DC would put her in.

She'd hardly considered her own safety. Maybe that was part of her problem, the belief that she only deserved to exist if she made everyone else's existence easier.

She'd spent her life sacrificing herself—her happiness, her freedom—to accommodate those around her. When she didn't willingly sacrifice herself, she'd learned the sacrifice was taken against her will, so why fight it? Why not just give in for the sake of safety and harmony and peace?

Right.

As if those had ever existed for her. They'd been elusive as wind until she'd reached Maine.

But she had found them in her new home—and then risked them. Why?

She would have to answer that question, someday, because knowing she'd put herself in danger to save her friend didn't bother her at all.

But now she saw what she'd refused to see before—that she might have put her sister in danger. And she certainly had put Derrick in danger.

And she'd risked her baby. Not that Basma and Rabie weren't worth the risk, but she hadn't even considered the child she carried.

She turned to Rabie and saw again his incredible…preciousness. He was valuable because he was. It was that simple.

And so was Jasmine's child, regardless of who his father was.

Jasmine rubbed a hand over her belly. I love you, my child. I will protect you.

Fresh tears slid down her face. She did love him, and when she failed to do so, she would ask God to help her. He would, of course. It was His will that she love, certainly that she love her own child.

If only she could promise her child the love of a good father. But she would die before she let Khalid get his hands on her baby.

It wasn't Khalid's face that swam in her mind's eye, though. It was Derrick's.

No.

She curled up again, refusing to imagine what it would be like to be Derrick's wife, to have him as the father of her child.

Because she was a married woman. As much as she despised her husband, she'd taken a vow. And there was no undoing that.

Loud knocking pulled Jasmine from sleep.

She sat up, blinking in the light from the bathroom, which she'd left on for Rabie. Only darkness showed through a space between the curtains.

"Jasmine?" Derrick's voice coming from the other room was faint.

She slipped from the bed and cracked the door open .

On the other side, he wore his T-shirt and pajama pants, his hair sleep-tousled. "We need to go."

"What? Where?"

"Michael just called. He's sending someone to pick us up, and they'll be here in twenty minutes. He wants us to be ready. I need about five to get dressed, and then I can help you. What do you need?"

She was still trying to catch up. "Where are we going?"

"We'll talk about it in the car. How can I help?"

She glanced at the boy asleep in the bed. He hadn't stirred.

"I think we let him sleep, if you can carry him?"

"Sure, yeah. Open this door when you're dressed, and I'll grab the bags."

"All right."

Fifteen minutes later, she followed Derrick out of the hotel room, pulling her suitcase and his wheeled duffel bag. He carried Rabie, who'd barely stirred, the red backpack slung over his shoulder.

A thirty-something woman who'd introduced herself as Marie, a friend of Michael's, led the way to the elevators. She carried herself like a soldier, and if Jasmine wasn't mistaken, the bulge on her side indicated a weapon.

On the first floor, they walked through the lobby and out the sliding doors to a dark sedan waiting at the curb. Exhaust streamed from the back, puffy and white in the chilly December air.

A man standing beside the car scanned the area.

The woman waited until Derrick, Jasmine, and Rabie had loaded into the backseat.

Once they were all in and buckled, Rabie's head leaning on Jasmine's shoulder, the man and woman climbed in, and the woman drove out of the parking lot and toward the highway.

The dashboard clock read four thirty-two .

Marie said, "You both need to power down your cell phones."

"Why?" Derrick asked.

Jasmine pulled hers from her purse and did as she'd been told.

"Precaution," the man said.

Derrick seemed like he might argue, then turned his off and shoved it in his pocket. "What's the plan?"

Marie answered. "We're taking you to a house in Harper's Ferry."

He nodded as if this made perfect sense to him.

"What is this, a ferry?" Jasmine turned from the people in front to Derrick. "We will get on a boat?"

"It's a town," Derrick said. "There's a house there where we'll be safe."

"Whose house?"

He shook his head, gaze flicking to the people in front. Perhaps he didn't want them to know, though she couldn't imagine why, considering they were driving.

She remembered something she'd overheard on the call, something about a place he'd been told he could use anytime. Maybe that was where they were going.

"How far away?"

Marie answered. "Little over an hour, ma'am. Might as well try to get some rest."

Derrick relaxed against the headrest, apparently planning to do just that. Rabie was still asleep.

Jasmine figured it wouldn't hurt to try. She closed her eyes and prayed that, wherever they were going, they would be safe there.

It took Jasmine a few moments to remember where she was. She lay on the soft bed and glanced around at the room. She was not at the house in Shadow Cove or at the hotel where they'd eaten pizza the night before.

No, this was the new place.

They'd arrived just before dawn, when morning was coming but the world was still bathed in shades of black and gray.

Derrick had carried Rabie inside and laid him on the bed, then told her to rest.

She'd wanted to ask him where they were and why, but he'd gone straight into another bedroom and closed the door.

She couldn't blame him for not wanting to talk to her after their discussion the night before.

She'd slipped back into her nightgown and, despite all the strange events of the previous day and night, had fallen immediately asleep.

Now, she took in the space. It was a corner room, and the exterior walls were made of horizontal logs, brown and rustic, laid one atop the other to create this shelter. Curtains had been pushed to the side of large windows so that only gauzy fabric blocked the sunny day. The bedspread was white, like the curtains and the other furniture in the room, which included a small bureau, a shelving unit filled with books, and a rocking chair. On the wall opposite her, a stone fireplace rose to the ceiling.

The effect was simple and elegant.

A clock on her bedside table told her it was half past nine.

She gazed at the empty bed beside her and sat up with a start. Where was Rabie?

She stood too fast, then paused, holding onto the bed as a wave of dizziness passed.

A noise came from the other room, and she tiptoed to the door .

"What'd I tell you?" Derrick sounded amused.

"Can I have another one?" Rabie asked.

"You can have as many as you want."

Since they seemed to be doing fine without her, she washed her face and changed her clothes before following the voices out of the bedroom and down a narrow hallway, inhaling the scent of frying oil and something she couldn't identify.

She stepped into a space she'd learned was called a great room, which had a living area, dining area, and kitchen with no walls separating them. It was decorated much like the bedroom had been—log walls, soft white sofas and curtains. The tables were not stark white but whitish with a little brown showing here and there. Antiques, or perhaps made to seem like they were. There were more shelving units filled with books of all sizes and colors.

Off the kitchen on one side of the house, three windows angled around a casual table for six.

There was a more formal table in the dining room on the opposite side, imposing, much darker brown than the log walls, and surrounded by twelve hefty chairs, the kind she and her sister could have shared as children—and probably could still.

Overhead, the ceiling peaked at twenty feet or more. The wall closest to her was all stone with a fireplace in the center. She stepped close, letting the flames warm her back, gazing through the tall windows on both sides of the room.

Nothing but forest all around—tall pines and stark, leafless oaks and birches and maples.

There were no other houses or structures in sight.

"You're awake." Derrick pushed up from where he'd been leaning on an island in the kitchen. He wore the pajama pants and T-shirt she'd seen the night before, along with a pair of blue slippers.

On the other side of the island, Rabie, still clad in his pajamas, sat on a stool, his little legs swinging beneath him, his curls a floppy mess. White powder rimmed his mouth. Funny how similar they looked, despite their different skin color—and facial structure. It was their matching smiles, she thought.

"Yasamin, you come try this. Derrick made donuts."

"You are a baker?" She crossed the living area to the kitchen. The light wood cabinets matched the color of the log walls. The black granite countertop was dotted with sugar—or maybe it was flour—and cinnamon, she guessed, based on the scent she picked up as she neared. There were two bowls, each filled with small donuts, and beside them, plates, forks, and napkins.

On top of the stove, a black skillet held an inch or so of oil, and by the way it sizzled, it was still hot.

She stood beside Rabie but spoke to Derrick. "I did not know you baked."

"I don't." He snatched a package from the countertop behind him and held it out to her.

She took the strangely-shaped paper, the remains of some package. She read the label. "Biscuits?"

"Canned biscuits. You know, Pillsbury?"

She didn't know, so she just shrugged.

"You just stick a hole in them," he explained, "and drop them in the oil."

"They are very good," Rabie said. "He likes the ones with the cinnamon, but I prefer the white ones."

"Powdered sugar," Derrick said. "You want one?"

"They sound very healthy."

"Sure. You got your important food groups. Bread. Vegetables."

She let her surprise show on her face, her eyebrows hiking. "Where are the vegetables?"

He pointed at the skillet. "Vegetable oil. Duh." He winked at Rabie, who giggled .

"You are ridiculous." She shook her head, trying to keep her lips from giving away her amusement.

"Sugar comes from a plant." Derrick nodded to a glass of milk on the counter. "And there's dairy. What are we missing?"

"The healthy part, I think."

"Killjoy." To Rabie, Derrick said, "Women."

He echoed, "Yeah. Women."

They both laughed.

She had no idea how long they'd been awake, but clearly long enough to form a bond.

Derrick took a mug from beside the coffee pot behind him. "There's no decaf, but I found some herbal tea, if you'd like. It's maple-ginger."

She started to walk around the bar. "I can make it."

He turned on the electric kettle. "Have a donut, Jazz. I got it."

Jazz.

She'd never told him how much she liked it when he called her that.

Probably, when this was all over, he'd quit calling her by the nickname. He'd quit calling her altogether.

She couldn't dwell on that or she'd get emotional like she had the night before. The thought of all the things she'd said to him and her frustration when he didn't understand warmed her cheeks.

She must not think of that. And she must never think of what he'd said.

Using a fork, she slid two donuts, one of each flavor, onto her plate and settled on the stool beside Rabie. She cut a bite of the cinnamon donut first and ate it.

"Well?" Rabie asked in Arabic. "It's good, right? The other one's better, though. "

"English, please," she said. "It's unkind to speak in a language not everyone understands."

His gaze flicked to Derrick. "Okay."

She wrapped her arm around the boy's narrow shoulders and held him close. "I'm so glad you're here." She let him go and took another small bite, enjoying the sweetness on her tongue. "It's very good."

"Try the other one," Rabie urged.

She cut a bite of the white one and ate it.

"Good, right?" he said.

Derrick was watching her.

She swallowed. "Yes, very. Very sweet. I like them both."

"You have to pick one." Rabie sounded horrified. "Which one is better?"

"Why do I have to choose? Why can I not like them both?"

He seemed to struggle for an answer, finally saying, "I don't know. Just because."

Derrick chuckled. "Everything's a competition, don't you know?" He shook his head, focus on Rabie. "She doesn't get it."

"Girls never do."

"Ha!" Derrick punctuated the point with a fork aimed at the child. "You should meet my sister-in-law. She's the most competitive person I know, and that's saying something, considering I have five brothers."

His little eyes widened. "Five?"

"I'm the youngest. When I was born, my parents knew they'd finally gotten it right and didn't have to keep trying."

Jasmine laughed, though Rabie didn't seem to understand the joke. She took another bite of the cinnamon donut, then asked Rabie, "How did you sleep?"

"I sort of remember getting here last night. When I woke up, I heard a noise and came out to see what it was. Derrick was tearing up newspaper. "

Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, Derrick gave him a fond smile but didn't interrupt.

"He let me help him build the fire."

She glanced at the flames across the room. "You did a fine job."

Rabie beamed. "He even let me use the lighter."

"Have you ever done that before?" When he shook his head, she said, "I haven't either. Maybe you could help me learn?"

His little eyes brightened. "I can teach you."

Ah, the confidence of children. "We will ask Derrick to supervise so I don't burn the house down, eh?"

That brought a solemn look. "Good idea. Women need help with these things."

Derrick cleared his throat. "We all need help when we don't know how to do stuff, don't we?" The electric kettle steamed, and he poured hot water into Jasmine's mug, added a teabag, and slid it across the bar to her, along with the sugar bowl and a spoon.

"Thank you."

He nodded but kept his focus on the boy.

Rabie didn't respond, just studied him as if he couldn't quite figure him out.

Not surprising. Derrick was different from all the men she'd known in Iraq. This culture was different. This world was different.

Rabie had probably never met a man who treated women like equals. It felt foreign to her, who'd at least understood, theoretically, that such men existed in the world. In Baghdad before Iraq fell apart, she'd seen Western men, Americans and British and others. Some diplomats and businessmen, but mostly soldiers. They treated women with respect and dignity.

Rabie hadn't had that example .

She sipped the tea, added a little sugar, and sipped again. It was strange. Sweet and sharp and unexpected.

She glanced up to find Derrick watching her.

He blinked. "Uh, is it okay? You want a glass of juice?" He headed for the refrigerator, adding, "I think there's orange?—"

"No, thank you. Where did the food come from?"

Derrick returned to his side of the bar. "I guess my friend"—he mouthed Michael— "had the people who drove us here last night pick up some groceries, enough for a couple of days."

"And he knew about the biscuit donuts you like to make?"

"Nah. I just found the cans in the fridge. Figured nobody would mind if I cooked them up." He grabbed a sponge and started wiping the counter.

"Do we have a plan?" she asked. "What happens now?"

He stopped, gaze flicking to Rabie, who was devouring another sugary donut, his fingers and mouth covered with white.

"There's a secure VPN here that you'll need to connect to."

"I don't know what this is, VPN?"

"Uh… Virtual private network?" He said the words as if he wasn't sure either. "The point is, it'll hide where we are, even if someone's monitoring, so it's safe. As soon as you finish breakfast, we'll connect and see if you've gotten an email."

From Basma, but he didn't say so.

"As soon as we get that," Derrick continued, "I'll reach out to my guy, and we'll make a plan. Okay?"

She nodded, and he started cleaning again.

"Let me do that." She slid off the stool. "You cooked. It is only fair."

"I don't mind."

"I would like to help. You have done enough."

"Fine." He tossed the sponge in the sink. "I'll get changed." He crossed the room and disappeared into the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

For Rabie's sake, Derrick had been kind and conversed with her, but their easy friendship was gone. If Rabie weren't here, what would their relationship be?

She had ruined it.

Maybe she wouldn't be able to fix it. Maybe it was too late. She must tell him the truth, all of it. He might not forgive her for keeping the secret, but at least he would understand.