Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

J asmine Fayad—Jasmine French , she reminded herself—had done her share of shopping since she'd arrived in the US. Just having the freedom to leave the house whenever she wanted was a thrill, so even though she didn't have much money to spend, she loved looking at all the pretty packages at the giant Target store and the small shops in downtown Shadow Cove. And now that it was Christmas season, everything was extra sparkly with pine trees and twinkle lights and shimmery holiday balls.

But she'd never been to a place like this.

The building was shaped like a little house on the outside with wreaths hanging in front of every window and garland around the front door. Only the round sign hanging over the entrance gave away that it was a shop. Inside, mannequins were displayed on pedestals all around, each wearing a different gown. Sleek and elegant—puffy shoulders and strapless and everything in between. There were colorful dresses, likely made for bridesmaids—reds and greens, which seemed the predominant colors for the holiday season—but most were white and pure and represented what marriage should be. They represented what her marriage was not and could never have been, even if she hadn't run.

The gowns represented everything Jasmine had lost and would never get back, no matter the freedom this country offered her.

Her shame felt heavier than any beaded and sequined dress could ever be.

"This place is amazing, is it not?" Leila broke off from the other women and linked her arm with Jasmine's, leaning close. "Which is your favorite?" Jasmine shrugged, but her twin pressed. "Please, I want to know."

As they perused the selection, Jasmine allowed herself to imagine how she'd look in the different styles, considering and then discarding each one.

And then she and her sister followed the other ladies around a corner, and a dress caught her eye.

The pure white satin bodice was covered with lace that rose to a bateau neckline, stretching from the shoulders across the base of the mannequin's neck. The lace continued down, forming long, elegant sleeves. The lace tapered over the full skirt, which fanned out behind the mannequin in a beautiful train.

"Yes." Leila studied the dress, reading Jasmine's mind. "It's exactly right. Modest and lovely, just like you."

Jasmine attempted to smile but couldn't pull it off. Leila was trying to be kind, but imagining the gown, imagining herself wearing the gown, brought a stab of grief and regret.

Why hope for things that could never be?

The store owner asked Leila to point out the styles she liked best. The rest of the bridal party crowded in.

Summer, the former-model-turned-fashionista, offered her opinion, as did Michael's mother. They both had good taste, but they didn't understand Leila's style .

Leila beckoned Jasmine through the crowd of women. "What do you think, sister?"

Jasmine took her time studying the gowns the other women had pointed out. "They will be lovely on you." But Leila didn't need a compliment—they were identical twins, after all. Across the showroom, she spied a style similar to one Leila had exclaimed over in a magazine. Off-the-shoulder with a modest neckline, it wasn't fussy with sequins and lace. The beauty would come from the woman who wore it. Jasmine gestured to it. "This one, I believe."

Leila gave her sister a grateful smile. It wasn't that she was shy—she'd always been the bolder sister. She didn't want to offend these women who would soon be her family.

The clerk promised to pull all the gowns the women had chosen and a few more and ushered Leila away.

Jasmine joined the other bridesmaids on sofas that faced a platform in front of mirrors, choosing a seat beside Eliza, Sam's wife. Sophie, who'd recently moved to Shadow Cove and was staying with Jasmine and Leila, took the spot on the adjacent sofa.

Peggy, Summer, and Camilla—wife of the oldest Wright brother, Daniel—chatted on the other sofas. Summer was expecting a baby, though she was barely showing. Jasmine figured her height—nearly a foot taller than Jasmine—was at least part of the reason she could hide her pregnancy so long.

Jasmine wouldn't be so lucky.

The women laughed and shared stories, and Jasmine tried to follow them, but she didn't contribute. She knew very little of this culture, and none of her stories would make them laugh.

Finally, Leila emerged wearing a lacy A-line dress.

It was beautiful, and the women exclaimed over it, but by the distaste in Leila's eyes in the mirror, she didn't care for it.

"I'm not sure." Jasmine's voice never carried far, and she was surprised when the women turned to her. She shrugged, feeling her cheeks warm with the attention. "It is not what I imagined you would choose, Leila."

"Yes, you're right, sister. It is lovely, though." She shot Jasmine a grateful smile and returned through the door to try another.

She'd only been gone a moment when Jasmine's cell phone vibrated in her pocket, sending a jolt of excitement through her.

She'd always wanted a cell phone. Baba had strictly forbidden it, and Khalid had only laughed when she'd asked. "Who are you going to call? Everybody you know lives here."

As if Khalid had ever known anything about her. Jasmine had had school friends in Baghdad. But after Leila escaped, after Mama died, Baba had hemmed Jasmine in, practically imprisoning her. He'd deemed all of Jasmine's friends bad influences, forcing her to sneak around like a criminal to have a simple cup of tea with a neighbor.

She didn't miss Iraq, but she did miss Basma, her dearest friend. But Basma, like Iraq, was lost to her now. She'd reached out to her, but Basma hadn't returned her messages in years.

Not that Jasmine would complain. She had new friends in Maine. She had freedom here. She was happy here. She was allowed to be happy. Encouraged to be happy.

So different from life in Iraq.

In America, she'd seen women ignore notifications on their phones, rolling their eyes as if it were a chore to have people who loved them. For Jasmine, every ding, every vibration, every little red dot reminded her of her freedom.

But it would be rude to take out her phone. Even when it buzzed again, she ignored it.

"Do you have a similar tradition in Iraq?" Eliza asked. "Shopping for a wedding dress? "

"Perhaps some families did." Jasmine shrugged. "Since the war, things have been very difficult. Nothing is as it was before."

"Oh." Eliza's brows lowered. "I didn't realize… The war was over a long time ago, wasn't it?"

"For America, yes. But there was a civil war after that, and the economy was difficult, and?—"

"Here she comes!" The cheerful clerk hurried through the doorway, and Jasmine wasn't sorry to be interrupted. The last thing she wanted to do was explain Iraqi politics. Everything had fallen apart—in her country and in her family. They all needed Jesus. Until her people found the One True God, they would remain lost. And angry. And filled with hate.

There was no room for such ugly thoughts in this beautiful place.

Oh. Speaking of beautiful…

Leila wore the gown Jasmine had liked for herself. Leila didn't tell the other women that, and when they told her how gorgeous it was, she thanked them but caught Jasmine's eye in the mirror.

Jasmine couldn't think of a word to say. It was everything Jasmine had always wanted and would never have. It was the moon. Unspeakably lovely.

And as far from reach.

"That is beautiful," Peggy exclaimed. "I can't imagine you any lovelier."

Leila broke their eye contact and turned to her future mother-in-law. "Thank you. It is, but it's not mine." Without further explanation, she returned to the dressing room, leaving confused murmuring behind her.

"I really liked that one," Sophie said. "I guess she didn't, though."

"It wasn't her style." Jasmine swallowed the emotions trying to give her away. "She will find the perfect dress."

A few minutes later, Leila emerged wearing a slim-fitting sequined gown that flared at the bottom. A mermaid-cut, a dress Leila never would have picked out.

"That's striking," Summer said. "There aren't very many women who can wear that style, but it works on you. And see how it makes you seem taller?"

Peggy added, "And shows off your slim figure."

Leila angled this way and that, checking her reflection. "I'm not sure." When she caught Jasmine's gaze, Jasmine saw what she really meant. She hated it.

"I'm not sure it is quite right for you." It wasn't like Jasmine to be the contrary one, but she would do this for Leila. "It is a little…like the lights are blinking?"

"Flashy?" By the tone of Summer's word, she disagreed.

"Yes, that is a good word to describe, I think." Jasmine nodded at the intimidating blonde, then turned back to her sister. "It doesn't reflect who you are." It did reflect everything else in the room, though. It was like wearing a disco ball.

Leila nodded, her lips tipping up at the corners. "You are right, sister. Thank you." She stepped off the platform and back through the door, the clerk following.

Jasmine dared a peek at Summer, afraid she might be angry, but Summer only smiled. "You know her better than we do. I'm glad you're here."

"Yes. I am as well." The words, such small words, could never convey the depth of feeling that lay behind them. Even in her native tongue, she didn't have the words to express her gratitude for being there with her sister. Safe. Protected.

"They're all going to look amazing on her," Peggy said. "You'll help her find the one that suits her."

As girls, Jasmine and Leila used to dream of their future weddings. They'd both wanted Cinderella gowns then—wide skirt, fitted bodice, puffy shoulders. Recently, as they'd perused magazines, Leila had shown a preference for more modern, elegant cuts.

Jasmine still dreamed of the fairy tale, probably because that was all it would ever be for her.

A fairy tale. A fantasy.

Her phone vibrated again.

Eliza must've heard it because she asked, "Somebody important?"

"Probably Derrick."

"Really?" Eliza infused meaning into the word, though what meaning , Jasmine didn't know. "What's going on with him?"

"We are good friends. I've never had a man friend. In Iraq, it's not allowed." She was working on using her contractions. "I'm glad it's allowed in America."

"That's all it is?" Sophie asked on the other side. Jasmine turned to find the curly-haired blonde's eyebrows high on her forehead. "Friendship?"

"What else would it be?"

Sophie shrugged. "You don't think there's any chance he's interested?"

"He finds me interesting, I think. I find him interesting." By the way Sophie's head tilted to the side, that wasn't what she meant. This conversation was confusing. "Interested in what?"

Her eyes widened. "Uh…"

Before she could explain, Jasmine's phone vibrated again.

"Maybe you'd better see who it is," Eliza said. "Could be important."

Not that anybody would need Jasmine in an emergency, but she wasn't going to argue. She pulled the phone from her dress pocket and checked the screen, expecting to see a text notification. But it wasn't a text.

It was an email.

Basma was the only person who had the address to the account Jasmine had opened years before and kept hidden from her father and, after the wedding, her husband. It'd been a long time since her old friend had written. Jasmine had sent her a message after she'd arrived in Maine to let her know where she was.

Finally, Basma had written back.

"Excuse me." She pushed up from the sofa and walked toward the windows at the front of the shop, reading what her friend had written.

Dear Yasamin,

I rejoiced to read that you have escaped Khalid and reunited with your beloved sister. I could not be happier for you both. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond. And I'm sorry to respond with this message now, but I have no choice.

I need your help.

My little brother and I have been happy with my aunt and uncle since Baba passed, but my half brother has decided to return to Baghdad and expects Rabie and me to move in with him.

Jasmine gasped. She'd met Basma's half brother, Dari, only once before, and just the memory of him had her shuddering.

She had spent years in the company of terrorists and murderers, men who treated women like slaves and children like pets. Her husband had been the worst of them.

But one glance from Dari, and Jasmine had felt as if scorpions crawled along her skin and in her hair. He wore darkness like a cloak.

Despite the warmth of the bridal shop, the festive decorations, and the sparkling gowns, she crossed her arms to stave off a chill that slid down her spine and returned her focus to the email.

Obviously, I cannot let this happen.

Though I tried to convince Uncle that Dari would not be a suitable guardian, he brushed off my worries. Even if he wanted to help me, he feels he has no right to do so, as Dari is a closer relative than he. Auntie tries to understand how I feel, but she doesn't know Dari well, and even if she did, she holds little sway over Uncle.

Perhaps to placate me, Uncle has surprised us with a trip. We have just landed in Washington, DC, where he is expected for an event. We will only be here for a few days.

Please, you must come and help us escape from Uncle's security. We can take a train to Mama's cousin. She will welcome us.

I know it is much to ask after everything you've been through. I wouldn't if not for Rabie, but I fear Dari will corrupt my little brother as he is corrupt.

As soon as I know where we're staying, I'll email again.

You are our only hope.

Please, help.

Your friend always.

Basma

Jasmine reread the email twice before she slipped her phone into her pocket, her hands shaking.

Basma, the only friend she'd had in the world after Leila ran away, needed her help. How could she turn her back on her?

But what could she do?

"Jasmine?" Sophie's voice came from a few feet away. "Everything okay?"

"Yes. Yes, thank you. "

"Your sister has another dress to show us."

Jasmine peered past Sophie to where Leila stood on the platform, watching her with concern in her gaze. She was too far away to ask the question forming on her lips.

She wore the dress Jasmine had been certain she would like. It was satin with a pleated, off-the-shoulder bodice, a low waist, and a skirt that was neither too fitted nor too bell-shaped, just gracefully flared. It was exquisite and sophisticated and perfect for Leila, though she seemed more concerned with what had distracted Jasmine than she did with the gown.

Moving closer, Jasmine said, "You are stunning, my sister."

Leila faced the mirrors, giving them a view of the back of the dress, which draped low, showing off her flawless cappuccino skin.

Jasmine bent and spread out the long train, then stepped back to admire the image she saw in the mirror. A splendid gown for Leila, who was about to marry into an amazing family and start a glorious life.

Tears filled Jasmine's eyes. Happy tears, of course. Why wouldn't she be happy for the sister she adored?

Leila and Michael were well matched. They would marry and live in the lovely house in Shadow Cove and have sweet children and grow old together.

At least this time, Jasmine wouldn't be left too far behind. She'd live nearby…somewhere. In an apartment, she supposed. Their children would be cousins. Jasmine would babysit for Leila's little ones. She could cook for their family, and perhaps clean. Maybe, if she was very useful and very quiet, she would be invited to family functions.

Perhaps she wouldn't be forgotten.

"Oh, my word." Peggy sounded almost reverent. "That is gorgeous. "

Jasmine stepped away, shaking off her melancholy and meeting her sister's eyes in the mirror. "What do you think?"

Leila's shoulders lifted and fell. "It is pretty." The way her eyes sparkled, Leila knew it was more than just pretty , but she felt too shy to say so.

Summer also stood. All the women were standing now. "It's spectacular."

Everyone had forgotten that Jasmine had been distracted. Nobody asked why she'd walked away.

When they got back to the house, should she tell Leila about Basma's email? If she did, Leila would tell Michael. Maybe Michael would help.

But Michael worked for the US government, and Basma's uncle was an Iraqi diplomat who worked with the Americans. Did Michael know him? Would he feel obligated to tell him Basma's plan to escape? Maybe not.

But maybe so.

Jasmine couldn't take the chance.

Anyway, Leila and Michael were going to New York with Bryan and Sophie, and after that, Michael was leaving town again. Jasmine didn't know much about what he was doing, but it was related to the terrorists he was still tracking—including her husband. She very much wished for him to find Khalid before Khalid found her. And her wish for that only added to her ever-present guilt.

She was in a family of terrorists. Married to a terrorist—the father of her unborn baby.

Was she wrong to have run away from him?

Should she have stayed? Supported a terrorist? Allowed her son to be taught to hate, or if she carried a girl, allowed her daughter to become a slave? Allowed her child to be taught about Allah instead of the One True God?

To stay or to run. Both were right, and both were wrong .

No matter what she did, she was guilty.

And now, a new guilt pressed. Because Basma needed her, and she had to find a way to help.

The men were already back from snowmobiling by the time Jasmine and the rest of the bridal party returned to Sam's house in Shadow Cove that afternoon. The house was large, but with everybody congregating in the living room, not nearly large enough.

When they all talked at the same time, who was listening?

Maybe that was Jasmine's job. But how was she supposed to listen to sixteen people at once?

Fading into the shadow of the Christmas tree, she used her phone to find directions to Washington, DC. The American capital was on the east coast, and Maine was as well. How far could it be?

The directions loaded, and she gasped.

Nearly six hundred miles?

Even worse, the route would take her through the cities of Boston and New York. Jasmine had only had her driver's license for a month. Could she make the drive by herself? Or would she get hopelessly lost? Or wreck Michael's car?

She needed help.

She couldn't ask Leila for advice, though. Leila would tell Michael, and Michael would not let her go, not because he didn't care about her but because he wanted to keep her safe.

He could stop her simply by taking the keys to his car.

She owed everything to Michael and his family. She lived in Michael's house and used a phone he'd provided. She worked for a business Sam owned.

She was grateful, so grateful .

But with no car of her own, limited money, and few friends, she suddenly realized she was not as free as she'd thought.

If only she could trust her sister and her future brother-in-law to help her, but her protection was their priority. They wouldn't understand what Basma meant to her, and she wouldn't be able to convince them in time to help her friend.

"Hey, sweetheart." Peggy scooted up beside her. "You're awfully quiet. Are you all right?"

"Of course." She worked to hide her turmoil. "It's just"—she gestured to the chaos—"very much."

"You want to help me get dinner on the table?"

"Yes, please."

Laughing, the older woman linked their arms and led the way.

The kitchen smelled of spices and something sweet. Jasmine should be hungry, but a few minutes later as she grated a block of cheddar cheese, her stomach churned with worry.

Maybe she could take a train to Washington. Was there a train in Portland? Or Manchester? If not a train, then surely there was a bus. There had to be a way to get to DC. But how could she help Basma and Rabie escape if she didn't have a car? If they tried to get away on foot, Basma's uncle's security would surely catch them.

She could hire a taxi to pick up her friends, but would a taxi driver help them get away?

If only Jasmine had Leila's boldness. If Leila were in charge, she'd be halfway to Washington already. She'd have a plan, and it would all work out, as things always did for Leila.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Peggy added spices to a thick, meaty stew she'd called chili. "You seem distracted."

"I am fine."

The older woman set her spoon down and faced her, leaning her hip on the counter. She studied her with narrowed eyes, and Jasmine's face warmed. Rarely did anybody pay that much attention to her. Well, except for her sister and Derrick.

He'd become such a good friend.

He'd know what to do.

Why hadn't she thought of him immediately? Of course Derrick would help her.

Peggy's eyebrows lifted. "What are you thinking?"

"How happy I am to be here."

The older woman's brows lowered, her lips pressing closed. "Mmm-hmm. I'm sure that's true, but that's not what you were thinking."

Shame—a familiar emotion—rolled over Jasmine. "I am sorry. I do not mean… Please forgive me."

Peggy rested her hand on Jasmine's arm, the contact warm and comforting and making her miss her own mother in a way she hadn't in a long time. Peggy reminded her of Mama and all the things Mama had been and could have been. And hadn't been.

Like protective.

Like loving. Toward Jasmine, anyway.

So unlike this woman, who seemed to love completely and without reservation.

"You don't owe me an apology or an explanation, sweetheart," Peggy said. "I'm a friend. If you ever want to talk about anything, you can trust me." She flicked her gaze behind her, as though to include everyone who filled the house. "You can trust us all. We're your family now. You know that, right?"

Peggy meant the words kindly, but Jasmine stepped back, feeling her smile tighten.

Family meant bonds. For most people, bonds meant security and comfort and provision. For the people in this house—even Leila—bonds were good things.

But for people like Jasmine, bonds were shackles .

She'd been a slave to her father, then to her husband.

If Jasmine didn't intervene, her friend Basma would become a slave to her brother.

The last thing Jasmine wanted was to be part of another family. At least here in the States, she was autonomous.

Peggy's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

"Nothing." She transferred the grated cheese to a bowl and rinsed the grater in the sink. "What else can I do?"

"We're pretty much done here. Why don't you go visit?—?"

"I prefer to work."

Peggy watched her for a long moment. "If you're sure."

Jasmine was thankful to be given a task. As long as she offered to help—as long as it was her choice—then she wasn't a slave.

She would never be a slave again, and if she could help it, neither would Basma.

When the meal was ready, the patriarch, Roger, called the Wright family to the kitchen. They came in laughing, joking, and jostling. The sisters-in-law and girlfriends were as different as the brothers were alike. The men were all tall and handsome, though none as handsome as Derrick, the youngest. His shoulder-length hair was curlier and messier than normal after a day of snowmobiling. His cheeks were red from the sun, and his ready smile widened when he caught Jasmine's eyes.

She smiled back. Yes, Derrick would help her.

When Roger offered a prayer of thanks for the food, she added her own silent, please God . She would need help from the One True God if she was going to pull this off.

The family lined up to serve themselves from the buffet on the peninsula. The kitchen was large but didn't feel that way with all the Wrights in it.

While the rest of them filled their plates—the decibel level was louder than ever—Jasmine returned the opened food containers to the refrigerator and stacked dirty pots and pans in the sink.

"You've done enough."

The words were low but still startled her. She spun, and Derrick took a dirty cutting board from her hands and set it aside. "Didn't mean to frighten you. You've been hiding in here long enough."

"I'm not hiding."

His eyebrows hiked, and though he didn't say anything, his expression held a challenge.

"Your family is very loud."

At that, he grinned. "Can't argue with you there." He set his hand on her lower back. "Come on. I already fixed your plate."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Figured you'd do it wrong." There was humor in his tone, but he must have been serious. Why else would he have gotten dinner for her? What man would ever get dinner for a woman?

It was odd enough that the men let the women serve themselves first—opposite of the way things were done in Iraq.

But to serve a woman?

Unheard of.

Derrick led her out of the kitchen, across the hallway, and toward the formal dining room.

Jasmine had eaten in there on her first visit to Sam's house, when she and Leila had just arrived in Maine. It held a round table large enough to accommodate the twelve chairs surrounding it. The last thing she wanted was another crowd.

She paused outside the door. "Would you mind very much if we find someplace private to eat? I need to talk to you."

"Oh." His eyes brightened as if he liked that idea. He walked down the hall and peeked into the living room, then glanced back with a smile. "Grab a seat. I'll get our food."

There were two wingback chairs near the fireplace, a small table between them. She settled into one of the chairs and watched the fire flickering nearby, lifting her hands to warm them.

She loved Maine. She loved the winter, even when it was so cold she worried her fingers and toes might fall right off. She loved the snow that covered everything in a layer of purity. And she loved the indoor fireplaces that people lit for no reason, as far as she could tell, except that they were cheerful. Sam's house had a furnace, like the house where Jasmine and Leila lived. So the flames were just for fun. For kindness and coziness and comfort.

Derrick set a tray on the table between them. "Eliza grabbed the tray so I wouldn't have to make two trips."

"I should have helped. I'm sorry."

"You're fine." He sat on the other chair and picked up a bowl. "Have you ever had chili before?"

"No." She took her dish, which he'd filled with the meat stew, orange chips—Fritos, she remembered from the package—grated cheese, sour cream, and green onions.

Derrick was mixing his concoction, so she followed his lead and tasted it on her tongue. It was spicy and creamy and crunchy and salty.

He watched. "Well?"

She chewed and swallowed, considering. "It is…different."

"Different?" Did he seem disappointed? "That's it?"

"I like it." It wasn't the most delicious thing she'd eaten in Maine, but it was food, and she would be thankful.

He shook his head, though his smile said he wasn't really unhappy with her .

She forced another bite, but she was too nervous to eat.

"Did you want to talk about something specific? Or did you just miss me?" He wiggled his eyebrows up and down, and she couldn't help the laugh that escaped.

"You are a very silly man."

"Hmm." Some of his amusement seemed to fade. "Silly. That's me. What's up?"

"I need your advice." She swallowed and added, "Really, I hope for your help."

"Sure, anything." He set his bowl on the table. "What's going on?"

She did the same, then clasped her hands in her lap. What if she told him about Basma's problem and he refused to help? What if he laughed at her? What if he told Michael, and Michael demanded she stay out of it?

Though these men hadn't exercised any control over her yet, they could. They had all the power.

As usual, Jasmine was powerless.

If she kept her mouth shut, she could simply take the car and go.

But…but she didn't even like to drive on the highway to Portland. How could she make it through Boston and New York City? And even if she only took the car to the bus station or the train station, it didn't belong to her. And this family had been nothing but kind. She owed them her trust.

The most terrifying gift to give.

Derrick's lingering amusement faded, his lips tightening at the corners. "What is it, Jasmine? What's wrong?"

She had to tell him. And he had to help her. If he didn't…if he didn't, then she'd find another way. She had to.

She took a breath and decided to trust. For now. "This is between you and me, okay? You must not tell anyone."

"Sure. No problem. "

"I have a friend from Baghdad, a very close friend. She and her little brother are in trouble. They're going to be in Washington, DC, for a couple of days, and they need my help getting away from their guardian."

Derrick's mouth opened. Closed.

Jasmine sipped her water—he'd added a squeeze of lemon juice, just like she liked it. How thoughtful.

She set the glass on the table and waited for the questions forming in his eyes.

"Who is this person?"

"An old friend."

"Does Leila know her?"

Why did that matter? "Basma and I didn't meet until after Leila left Iraq."

"Your friend—Basma?" She nodded, and he continued. "She's trying to take her brother away from his parents?"

"No. Their mother died of cancer, like mine. It's why we became friends—we had that in common. Her father was much older and died a few years ago. He was a kind and gentle man who adored Basma and Rabie. He arranged for them to live with his brother and sister-in-law, where they have lived ever since. But Basma has a half brother—the son of their father—who has decided he will take them to live with him from now on."

Derrick was nodding slowly. "And that's a problem because…?"

"He is evil."

Derrick sat back, eyebrows hiking. "Evil?"

"Yes."

"Based on…?"

It took Jasmine a moment to figure out that Derrick was asking for proof of her claim. And she almost supplied it. She'd heard enough stories from Basma, after all. But…

"Do you not believe me? "

"I didn't say that. I'm just… How old is this friend of yours?"

"About my age. Basma's mother got cancer when she was pregnant and died a few weeks after Rabie was born. Basma convinced her father to let her remain unmarried so she could devote her life to raising Rabie. She loves him. And he loves her. Basma is the only mother Rabie has ever known—and the only parent he has left."

"That's very noble, but I'm confused. You said she lives with a guardian, so I assumed she's a child. If she's an adult, why does she need to escape? Can't she just walk away?"

Derrick hadn't seemed slow-witted, but his question showed he wasn't as smart as she'd thought, considering he'd flown the plane that had aided in Jasmine and Leila's escape from her family.

A moment passed, and then Derrick said, "But, I mean… You couldn't walk away. You were trapped. Imprisoned. Are you saying this woman is in the same situation?"

"There is security that will prevent her from leaving."

"I see." Derrick scrubbed his hand across his jaw. "How old is her little brother?"

"Nine or ten years?"

"She doesn't have custody?"

"He is with her. Is this what you mean? To have custody is to own, yes?"

"She's the boy's legal guardian, right?"

"Of course not."

"Oh." His eyes scrunched in confusion. "So…her uncle is?"

"Now, they live with her uncle, and he makes decisions for them."

"But the half brother will become the boy's guardian soon?"

"Yes, and he's evil. You will not help an innocent child escape an evil man?"

"I didn't say that." Derrick straightened, scowling. "It's just… I assume you're getting your information about this half brother from your friend. But would a judge agree?"

"What judge? There is no judge."

"I mean, if your friend were to sue for custody?—"

Jasmine's burst of laughter—there was no humor in the sound—cut his words short. "You do not understand anything."

"Explain it, then."

"Her half brother is a man . My friend is a woman ."

Derrick didn't react. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue, as if she hadn't already said it all.

"He doesn't have to ask for custody," Jasmine said. "He is a man. He can do anything he wants. He has all the rights, all the power. She has no say. The child has no say. There is no judge who will question him."

"Oh, but her father?—"

"Is gone." Jasmine spoke more slowly. Maybe she was speaking too fast, though normally Derrick had no trouble with her accent. "Dari is her brother, so he has authority over her and Rabie."

"Over her ?" Derrick sounded genuinely surprised. "A grown woman?"

"Of course."

"But she's an adult."

Jasmine threw her hands up. "She is a woman. She has no power. She only has choices if a man lets her." The problem wasn't Jasmine's accent at all. How could Derrick not see?

"Okay. Okay." He lowered his gaze and rubbed his forehead. "Sorry. It's a cultural thing, of course. It's hard for me to comprehend. It's…bizarre." He met Jasmine's eyes. "I'm not trying to be thickheaded. I just come by it naturally."

"I see that."

His lips quirked, but the smile never materialized. "Truly, Jasmine. This is very foreign to me. Can you understand that? "

She took a breath. "I think, yes."

"And what is it you're asking me to do?"

"Go with me to help her and her brother escape."

He shook his head. "Way too dangerous. What if somebody sees you? What if?—?"

"She is my friend. I should let her suffer because I am afraid?"

He started to say something, stopped himself. "She's not your responsibility."

"She is, of course. She is…she is like a sister. You would do this for your brother, yes?"

"Obviously, but she's not your sister. And how do you know she's telling you the truth? What do you know about this brother of hers?"

"My friend would not lie. And I have met Dari. I know him." She stood and paced across the living room, asking God to help her explain. The fire flickered, the Christmas tree lights twinkled, such a contrast to her dark thoughts.

She peered out the windows at the bottom of the hillside. It was winter, but a few boats bobbed on the water, lit by colorful holiday lights that matched those in the small, secluded town of Shadow Cove.

In this place, everything was bright and cheerful and happy. How could Derrick possibly understand a man like Dari?

Her focus shifted, and she caught sight of Derrick in the reflection, watching her. She turned to face him. "Have you ever met somebody who exuded the Spirit of God? Somebody who loved the Lord so much that you could feel Him on them?"

"I'm a good judge of character, if that's what you mean. Why, do you get feelings like that about people?"

"Yes." She moved to stand with her back to the fire, enjoying the warmth after the chill that seeped through the windows. "Usually within a few minutes, I can tell if somebody is being honest or duplicitous. It is the reason that, when your brother showed up to rescue us from Iraq, I trusted him immediately. It is the reason I do not fear you and your family." At least, she usually didn't fear them, when she was thinking straight. "You are all very…clean."

His eyebrows hiked. "Uh…clean?"

"I do not know how to explain." She flipped her hands toward the family in the other room. "It is a feeling. It is just that there is a clarity, nothing muddled or twisted or ugly, you see? This house, and your brother's house, they feel clean. Like that."

"Okaaay."

"What is a place you love, a place you feel close to God? A church?"

"Oh. I see what you're saying." Derrick seemed to consider that. When he met her gaze again, he said, "In the cockpit, in the air with the clouds below me, nothing but sky all around. I realize how small I am, how big God is. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, okay. It is a clean feeling, yes? Clear and fresh."

"I wouldn't have described it that way, but I guess."

"Now, think of a place where you were in the presence of sin."

"So like…a singles bar? Where people are drinking and hitting on women?"

The thought of him in a place like that turned inside of her, darkening her feelings for him like a swath of black across a rainbow. She returned to her chair, hoping her voice didn't reveal her surprise. "This is a place you go often?"

"What? No." His eyes widened. "Never. I mean, not never, obviously. When I was in college, you know, a couple of times?—"

"Oh, I see." She couldn't help her smile. "I didn't think… Of course you would not. "

"Right. Well…" He pushed his unruly hair back from his face. "A singles bar. A place like that definitely feels unclean."

"My friend's half brother carries that feeling of uncleanliness. Darkness walks with him, and fear. Basma has told me stories of things he did to her when she was small."

"Like what?"

"When she was little and he came to visit, he would go into her room at night and watch her. She would pretend to be asleep because she was afraid of him. But he would know she was awake. And he would whisper how she was worthless, that her father would be lucky to sell her to a goat farmer."

"Her brother said that?" Derrick's face twisted in disgust. "Why? Who would tell a child something like that?"

Jasmine shrugged. "Does cruelty need a reason? Even if I hadn't heard stories, I would have known. I met him once, and his evil is like the stench of manure. It is unmistakable."

Derrick stared at the fire for a few long moments before he faced her again. "Maybe this is going to sound callous, but what does it have to do with you?"

"She is my friend. She was, for a time, my only friend."

"Okay, but…is that really a reason to risk your safety? Can't she find another way?"

Her heart rate spiked.

He didn't understand anything.

And how could he, when he was surrounded by people who loved him? Even now, voices and laughter floated from the other room, all these happy, supportive people. Derrick had never known what it meant to be alone and isolated. To be abandoned and forgotten.

She pushed to her feet and backed away.

"Hey," he said, "don't do that. I'm just asking a question."

But the heat from the flames, so comforting before, felt stifling now. "She will be imprisoned. Possibly harmed. And little Rabie will be raised to be like him."

"Why doesn't she just go to the authorities, or?—?"

"What authorities?"

"I don't know. I'm not saying no, but…"

He didn't finish the statement, and he didn't have to. "You do not believe me. Or you do not trust me."

"I don't even know what you're asking me to do."

"To help my friend the way you helped me. She has a cousin in the States."

"Let's talk to Michael. I'm sure he'll?—"

"No. You must not."

Derrick's eyes flashed with worry.

"I will find another way." She turned and walked out, not that she had anywhere to go. But she had to do something. Now that she was free, how could she do nothing while her friend was taken into captivity by a man like Dari?

She couldn't.

And if Derrick wouldn't help her?—

She'd figure out a way to help Basma on her own.