The morning after my visit to the laundromat, I contemplate my next move as I work out in the hotel gym.

I’m forcing myself to take a break from running until I’m sure my ankle is totally healed. Instead, I make use of the machines and free weights set up in one corner of the room. A lone guest walks on a treadmill in front of a TV playing morning shows while I listen to my favorite workout playlist and do renegade row pushups and deadlifts.

I mull over going back to the laundromat and asking to speak to M.L. Stephanos. But after yesterday, I know the woman working there will recognize me right away. There’s no way she won’t figure out I was snooping around in the basement. She’s not likely to tell me a damn thing.

I’ve checked the Better Business Bureau and done a property tax record search online with the county. The name of record for the property taxes is an LLC with a post office box in New Jersey. At this point, I’m coming up with a lot more questions than answers. My next plan is to go to the county in person and flash my badge, but I’m not sure what that will turn up. It seems whoever is behind M.L. Stephanos and his laundromat is working hard to keep the secret.

In frustration, I turn up the volume on my earbuds and blast my way through three more sets of arm exercises. By the time I’m finished, I’m sweating profusely and no less frustrated, but at least I’ve burned off some energy. I wipe off the equipment I’ve been using, grab a fresh towel from the stack by the door, and take the stairs back up to the fourth floor as I mop myself off. I’m still breathing heavily as I heave open the fire door and step into the hallway.

And notice a large, leather-clad figure leaning against the wall opposite my room.

I hate more than anything the way my heart starts to race at the mere sight of him there. And oh God, I hate that once again, he’s seeing me bathed in sweat, my hair sticking to my beet-red face. If this is karma for something I’ve done in a past life, whatever it was must have been bad.

“You know,” I say, to cover up my embarrassment, “It’s not a good idea to stalk a federal agent.”

I expect Travis to toss back some smart-ass comment. But instead, he stands up and turns to me, his face drawn and serious. “I’ve got something for you,” he says, not even realizing he could make a sex joke out of a remark like that. “Something big.”

When Travis tells me why he’s come, though, all thought of jokes and laughing — even sex — flee my mind. I ask him to wait downstairs for me while I take a quick shower. I change into my suit, leave my gun in the safe, and twenty minutes later, I’m striding into the hotel lobby. Travis is sprawled out on one of the generic, uncomfortable-looking couches in the middle of the room. I catch the woman behind the front desk eyeing us suspiciously, and almost laugh. It’d be hard to find two people who look more mismatched at the moment than we do.

“I’ll follow you in my car,” I say as Travis stands.

“Fuck that,” he growls. “Come on. We’ll take my bike. I’ll drop you back here afterwards.”

It’s not a request. I should protest, but he’s already out the door before I can say anything. His bike is out front, in the spot where he parked it when he brought me back after I twisted my ankle. He fires up the motor and glances back at me impatiently to get on. Realizing resistance is futile, I climb on behind him, feeling a secret thrill as I wrap my arms around his waist.

“Sorry I don’t have a helmet for you,” he calls above the engine. “Didn’t have time.”

When we get to the hospital, we stop just outside the front doors. Travis pulls out his phone and punches out a text. A second later, he gets a response. “Isabel’s gonna meet us at the elevators on three.”

We go up to the third floor. When the elevator doors open, a strikingly beautiful, olive-complected woman is there to greet us. Her long dark hair is pulled back in a high pony, and she’s wearing nursing scrubs.

“Hey,” the woman says, taking a step towards us. She looks at Travis and nods, then turns to me. “I’m Isabel,” she murmurs, holding out her hand.

“Brooke.”

“I’m sorry,” she hesitates. “Would you mind showing me your badge?”

“Of course.” I pull it out and flip it open, holding it up so she can examine it. When she seems satisfied, I put it away. We start to walk down the hallway, Isabel slightly ahead of us.

“We’ve located the blue phone,” she begins. At my frown, she explains. “It’s a way to connect patients with interpreters remotely. I showed the girl the booklet, and it turns out, she speaks Ukrainian.” Her wide eyes are full of concern. “I believe her name is Natalia. We’re going to try to contact an interpreter who can ask her to tell us what her full name is, whether she has any family she wants us to contact, and what happened to her that she ended up here.” She takes a breath. “Once we’ve done that, I’ll ask the interpreter to tell the girl who you are, and whether she’d be willing to answer your questions.”

“That sounds perfect,” I agree.

“Beast.” Isabel turns to him. “I’m thinking, maybe it would be better if you stayed out of the room for this? If she’s… well, if any of our suspicions about her are right, it might be easier for her to talk to us if there were just women there.”

“Got it.” He nods once. “I’ll go down to the cafeteria and have some of that shitty coffee Thorn loves so much.”

Isabel gives him a grim smile. The two of us watch him as he heads back to the elevators.

“Thank you for doing this,” I say.

“I’m doing it for the girl,” she replies. “Please don’t make me regret it. And if she refuses to talk to you, that’s the end of it. FBI agent or no, if she doesn’t want to tell you anything, you’ll have to get some sort of warrant or something and go through the official hospital channels to come back. I won’t have that on my conscience.”

“I understand.” And I do. I admire this woman for taking such a strong stand.

We continue down the hallway in silence. “How do you know Travis?” I ask.

“Travis?” She wrinkles her nose in confusion.

“Um… Beast, I mean.”

The corners of Isabel’s mouth quirk up. “His real name is Travis?” she asks.

“Yeah. I knew him back in the day. High school.”

“Wow. That’s…” She laughs, shaking her head. “It’s hard to picture him as a high school kid.”

I have to smile. “He looked similar. Not quite as tall or as big, though. Or as many tattoos.”

“I’m with one of the other Lords. Thorn.”

“Aha. Hence, how you know him as Beast.”

“Yeah, that’s how pretty much everyone knows him now. I’ve never heard him called Travis before.”

We arrive at the girl’s room, and Isabel knocks softly on the half-open door before peeking in. “Hello, Natalia,” she says slowly and deliberately.

“H-h-ello,” the girl repeats softly.

She looks so tiny, there on the bed. She’s in a flimsy hospital gown that is giant on her, and she has the covers pulled up around her waist on all sides, like she’s trying to make a fortress. Remnants of makeup stain her eyes and cheeks, but beneath it she could be anywhere from twelve to eighteen. More on the younger side, I think, and my heart aches at the idea. Her eyes are like saucers, huge in her thin face. There is a light bruise on her left cheekbone, and some cuts on her arms. She’s pale, and clearly afraid, but otherwise she doesn’t look seriously hurt.

Isabel steps forward and picks up a blue bag that’s sitting on a chair. She unzips it, and takes out a strange-looking phone with two headsets on either side and a bank of buttons in the center. Pulling a cord out of a side pouch, she connects one end to the phone and another to a jack on the wall behind the girl’s bed.

Isabel picks up a laminated sheet that’s resting on the small stand next to the girl’s bed. “I’m going to call someone who speaks your language,” she says slowly, pointing first at the sheet, and then at the phone. The frowns for a second, then seems to understand, and nods. Then her eyes flicker toward me, as though noticing me for the first time.

“This is…” Isabel begins, and then hesitates for just a moment. “…A friend,” she finally finishes. I flash her a grateful look.

“Natalia?” I ask. The girl stares at me, and then does the same brief hint of a nod. “I am Brooke,” I say, pointing my thumb at my chest. “Natalia.” Pointing at her. “Brooke.” Pointing at me.

“Brooke,” she repeats quietly. I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“That’s right.” I look over at Isabel.

“Okay, here goes,” she says. She sets the phone on the small table with wheels next to the bed, and pushes it close to Natalia. Picking up the left handset, she pushes a blue button on the phone itself, then listens. A few seconds later, she pushes a white button beside it.

“Ukrainian,” she says into the mouthpiece, slowly and distinctly.

She waits. The room is quiet. Then:

“Hello, interpreter. I’m a nurse at Tanner Springs General Hospital. I have a patient here that I need to get some general information from. She came to us without identification, and she does not have any friends or family with her… Yes. Yes. Here she is.”

Isabel picks up the other handset and gives it to Natalia, who puts it to her ear.

“Sluchaju?” she whispers.

And then, as Isabel and I watch, she bursts into tears.

The interpreter gives the girl a minute to collect herself. Natalia clings to the phone like a lifetime, sobbing, “Diakuju! Diakuju!” over and over into the phone. I’m struggling not to start crying myself, to imagine how terrified and alone she must feel, and what a relief it must be to talk to someone who can understand her.

Little by little, Natalia quiets. The interpreter must say something to Isabel, because she wipes at her eyes and clears her throat. “Yes. Yes. Natalia. Please tell me what your full name is, and where you’re from.”

Isabel listens, pulling a pad and pen from her pocket to write notes. Through the interpreter, she finds out that the girl is from a town outside Kiev, and that she is sixteen years old. She was taken from the streets of Kiev months ago.

“Natalia. What brings you here to the hospital? Where did you come from?”

In a halting voice, the girl explains that she was locked up in a place with other girls. That they were being used for sex by the men who came there. She says that they were in that place for a long time, but that yesterday, or maybe the day before, they were woken up in the middle of the night and told everyone was leaving. They were put into a truck and driven away. Natalia managed to escape when she asked to go to the bathroom and ran into the night before they realized she was gone.

Natalia’s voice has been rising as she speaks, her tone growing desperate.

“Ya ne znav kudy yty! Ya boyavsya! U mene nemaye dokumentiv! U mene nemaye hroshey!”

The girl begins to weep, her head buried in her hands.

“Isabel,” I say quietly. “Can you please ask the interpreter to tell Natalia who I am, and ask her if she’s willing to talk to me directly? Please tell her that I want to help the girl. I want to make sure she’s safe.”

Isabel talks into the receiver. The girl listens as the interpreter speaks to her. Then, sniffling, she looks over at me and nods, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Tak.”

Isabel hands the phone to me. I spend the next ten minutes or so getting as much of Natalia’s story as I can. I ask the names of her parents, and how to get hold of them. She tells me her mother is dead, but that her father is alive and lives in her town near Kiev. At the end, I tell her that I will make sure she’s safe and that I’ll help her get back home. She starts to cry again and thanks me, over and over.

Isabel takes the phone from me. “Tell Natalia to rest, now,” she says to the interpreter. “We’re going to keep her here overnight, and I’m going to contact the Ukrainian embassy and have them get in touch with her father.”

Natalia listens to the interpreter, clutching the handset tightly. Tears spring to her eyes once again, but for the first time, they’re not from fear. She looks at me and gives me a smile so hopeful, so innocent, that my heart feels like it’s going to shatter.

The call ends. I glance over at Isabel, who looks as wrung out as I feel. As she starts to replace the blue phone in the bag, a soft tap on the door makes all of us turn our heads.

Travis steps into the room. “Hey,” he rumbles. “Everything good in here?”

From the bed, Natalia begins to scream.