Читать книгу Mask Of A Hunter - Sylvie Kurtz - Страница 14

The instant Rory saw her niece, a pool of guilt filled her to near drowning. Why hadn’t she come to visit in the past nine months? Why hadn’t she dragged Felicia and Hannah home with her? Why had she let all the painful memories stored in the granite bed of this state turn her into a coward?

Across the cramped living room, Hannah sprawled in a mesh-sided travel crib swaddled in a pair of pink footed pajamas. Her arms were splayed at her sides, and her loose fists showed off smooth palms and tiny fingers. A nine-patch quilt in shades of pink lay beside one hand. One corner looked gummed as if Hannah had used it as a pacifier. Flyaway curls of a soft brown with red highlights surrounded her face. A face that, in sleep, spelled innocence and vulnerability, and at once made Rory feel as needed as a calculus book in a poetry class.

She was used to order, to things done her way, to being the master of her days. This baby, who didn’t look much bigger than a library edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, actually had her pulse skittering as if she were facing an armed madman demanding she produce plans for a nuclear device. She swallowed hard. “I don’t know anything about babies.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud until Candace’s voice grated against her ears. “Hannah’s an easy baby.”

Which meant next to nothing to Rory. Easy was an instruction manual, and she didn’t see one lying conveniently around. She let her tapestry tote bag slip from her shoulders to the rust-carpeted floor and peered farther over the edge of the crib at the creature sleeping there. What did Hannah eat? How long did she sleep? How did one entertain a nine-month-old child? Then there were diapers and baths and tears. The responsibility of it all gave her legs the sturdiness of wet sponges. She’d never worn helplessness well. “Tell me about her routine.”

Candace, dressed in black stretch pants and a light-blue sweatshirt with a sledding snowman printed on the front, finished tidying up the coffeemaker in the kitchenette and moved to the tiny living room where a soap opera played on the television. “Felicia usually covers the breakfast and lunch shifts at the diner, so Hannah goes to the sitter’s around 5:00 a.m. and gets picked up around 3:00 p.m.”

Candace headed to a pile of knitting on the seat of a faded lime-green armchair. She stuffed the balls of light-blue yarn and steel needles into a yellowing canvas bag with a Summersfield town centennial logo. Then hands on hips, she frowned at the floor as if she were looking for something. “Other than that, Hannah pretty much leads the way. She still takes a couple of naps a day, but sleeps through the night. She’s a good eater. It doesn’t take much to keep her happy.”

With a humph, Candace bent at the waist and picked up a glossy magazine, featuring a snowflake sweater and a rosy-cheeked pre-schooler, that had somehow strayed beneath the armchair. The map of lines on the older woman’s face placed her age on the strong side of fifty. Her short, bristle-stiff hair was still brown, although gray roots showed. Rory had not seen her stand in place for longer than a second since she’d arrived—and even then, her knitting needles had clicked like an old-fashioned typewriter manned by manic fingers. There was nothing soft or sweet about her, yet there was a spirit of generosity Rory found hard to ignore.

“Thanks for waiting for me.” She could handle Hannah on her own. Felicia had done it. So could she. How hard could it be?

Candace humphed again as she grabbed her black Mary Poppins handbag from the half wall separating the narrow kitchenette from the living room. “She’s a good kid.”

Rory wasn’t sure if she meant Felicia or Hannah. “Have you heard from Felicia?”

“Not a word.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

Candace slid the handles of the canvas knitting bag over her shoulders. “I learned a long time ago to mind my own business.”

“But—”

“Summersfield ain’t no Currier and Ives postcard, honey. It’s all I know, and I don’t want to cause myself any grief. Felicia, well, she made some decisions that are hard to undo. And if you want my advice—although somehow I doubt you’ll take it—I’d wrap that pretty baby up and take her away.”

“I have to find Felicia.” For all her faults her sister had finally done something right.

“It ain’t going to change anything.”

“You think she’s…hurt?” Rory could not bring herself to say dead out loud.

Frowning, Candace rummaged through her bag. “What I think don’t matter.”

“If Felicia’s in danger, I have to help her.”

Out came a purple bear with one ragged ear. Candace handed the plush toy to Rory. “Have you ever thought that maybe it’s too late to help her?”

Rory blinked in surprise. “No, I hadn’t.”

Not really.

At least she’d discounted that dire possibility. She still thought of Felicia as the headstrong kid who had a knack for checking out when the going got tough. She’d run away from school on a regular basis. She’d run from summer camp. She’d run from home. Rory had thought Hannah’s arrival had changed Felicia…and on the trip up to New Hampshire, she’d talked herself into believing this was just another one of Felicia’s disappearing acts that would resolve itself within a few days. Once she worked herself out of the quagmire of her emotions, Felicia usually returned.

Except that Candace’s phone call asking her to come get Hannah had spooked Rory. It was so premeditated an action for a girl like Felicia who lived for the moment. Sebastian’s assertion that Felicia was working undercover for the ATF hadn’t helped. That, too, was out of character. It just didn’t make sense. Felicia would never have done that. Not after what had happened to their parents.

Except maybe for a chance to stay with Hannah.

Rory kneaded at the tension hiking her shoulders to her ears.

Then when Ace—really, what kind of name was that for a grown man?—had brought up his theory that Felicia was hiding, she’d jumped at the saving grace of the probability that she wasn’t too late. Because if something had happened to Felicia, then that long-haired Italian pirate with his show-off muscles was right, and Rory had waited too long to find her courage. And if she’d failed Felicia when Felicia needed her most, Rory wasn’t sure she could live with the guilt.

Felicia was alive. Scared, but alive. Rory had to believe that.

Candace jerked her head toward the kitchenette. “My number’s on the memo board on the fridge. Penny Webster sits for Hannah. She’s right upstairs. Her number’s there, too, if you need her. So’s the number of Hannah’s doctor.”

“Thank you for all you’ve done.” Rory rubbed her arms against a core-deep chill that shivered through her in spite of the warm afternoon sunlight pouring through the bay window.

Candace wrung the doorknob and yanked the door open. “She’d have done the same for me.”

With that, Candace was gone, and Hannah was all hers. Rory slanted a glance at the sleeping baby and gulped. She reached into her tote bag for her laptop. First things first. She needed information on nine-month-old children, and she needed it fast: www.parenting.com. Then she could worry about Ace Lyon and Mike Fletcher and the illegal activities that hid behind the illusion of New England small-town charm in Summersfield.

RORY WAS STRUGGLING with a spoonful of mashed carrots when the roar of a motorcycle peeling around the town common snapped her out of her concentration and Hannah, who was strapped to her high chair, into a wail. Whatever Felicia lacked in proper nutrition for herself, she’d made sure Hannah would not run out of junior meat sticks, vegetables and fruits any time soon. There were enough jars in the cupboard to feed an entire daycare class for a year. Rory had spent the last half hour trying to interest Hannah in chicken sticks, mashed carrots and green beans. Finger eating might encourage dexterity, but it sure didn’t make for a neat meal. Armed with a baby spoon she waved like a baton, Hannah had seemed more interested in decorating Rory’s hair with carrots than eating them.

Until the motorcycle.

What kind of idiot races down a main road where children could be playing? Rory picked up the bawling Hannah and headed for the bay window facing the street.

The black-and-chrome steel monster stopped below. When the bearded Viking looked up, she swallowed hard. Was it too late to douse the lights and pretend no one was home? She recognized him, of course. Felicia had sent pictures. Even in the Christmas family portrait that was supposed to show tight bonds, there was something cold and empty about Mike’s eyes that had her questioning what Felicia saw in him.

Mike shut off the engine and leaned the monster bike on its stand. Hannah’s wail subsided to sniffles, and she promptly mashed her tear-streaked face into Rory’s hair. Had she packed shampoo? Patting Hannah’s diaper-padded rear, Rory kissed the crown of the baby’s head. “It’s okay, little angel. I won’t let him touch you. I don’t care if he is your father.”

Rory’s heart pounded to the rhythm of the heavy boots tromping on the stairs. Wanting to prevent his entry into the apartment, she inched the door open. Night air with an edge of frost swirled around her legs.

“Well, hello there, little girl.” His voice had a certain seductive edge to it—if you were into snakes. He didn’t look at Hannah, but straight at her. It set Rory’s teeth on edge, but she swallowed her sarcastic retort. If she wanted to get information out of him, she could not start on adversarial ground.

His green eyes widened with appreciation as his gaze slid down her body, making her wish for steel armor.

“What’s wrong with her?” Mike asked as Hannah’s tears hiccupped to new heights. His shaggy blond hair brushed his shoulders. His slightly darker beard could use a trim. He wore the standard biker gear of black engineer boots, denim jeans with a chain securing a wallet from his belt to a rear pocket, a black jacket with Mike tooled into the leather, and a gray T-shirt with the words Graberbootie & Pinch printed in darker gray on its front. Bits of various tattoos showed at the collar of the T-shirt and the cuffs of his jacket sleeves. Most disturbing of all, he carried a Buck Knife at his belt. Wasn’t that illegal for a felon?

“She misses her mother.” Rory placed a protective hand over the baby’s tender head. Maybe she wasn’t totally devoid of motherly instincts after all because the last thing she wanted was this hulk to place his greasy hands on Hannah’s soft skin.

“Well, she should feel right at home then.” His oily gaze settled on her chest. Rory shifted Hannah to cover the objects of his interest. “You look just like her with all that red hair.”

Had he even noticed that Felicia’s eyes were blue not amber? Or was his interest stuck on breasts even for the woman he supposedly loved? “What can I do for you, Mike?”

He leaned against the doorframe and hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “I heard you were here and wanted to make sure you settled in okay.”

“Do you know where Felicia is?”

He shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“Nah, it’s just like her to skip out like this. Ask anyone. We had a disagreement. Give a couple of days, and she’ll be back.”

Before Hannah, before the ATF thing, Rory might have agreed with him. But now, seeing Mike so calm and indifferent, an icy premonition skated down her back. Facts, Rory, look for facts. Emotions never got you anything but hurt. “A disagreement about what?”

His gaze narrowed, and its warning hit home as surely as if he’d used the knife. Don’t mess with me or I’ll mess with you. “Man and woman things.”

That didn’t sound good. “Where do you think she went?”

“Who knows?”

Rory made a mental note to ask Sebastian to check on Felicia’s credit-card and bank-account activity. “Take a guess.”

His gaze strayed to the horizon, copper against the jagged silhouette of the row housing and brick shops surrounding the town common. A car horn tooted below and a pair of swishing headlights accentuated the harsh lines of Mike’s face. “Sometimes she goes to her friend Karla’s place and they have a pity party.”

And left Hannah behind? And a cryptic message to Candace to call Rory if she didn’t show up for her shift? It didn’t make sense. “Does Karla have a last name?”

“Leach.”

“Where does Karla live?” Why did this feel as if she were pulling worms out of a carcass?

“Manchester, I think.” He shrugged again. “Sometimes Felicia goes on benders and holes up in a motel.”

Not since Hannah. Rory would bet her last dollar on that. As if she agreed, Hannah tugged on Rory’s hair and babbled a few watery syllables. “Well, thanks. I’ll start with that.”

“It’s best if you just let her work things out.” He said this as if Felicia were a bad dog who’d run away and would surely return when she got hungry enough.

“She has a baby to take care of.”

“She left the kid in good hands.”

“Candace has to work.”

He jerked his head toward the apartment upstairs where the soft strains of Enya trickled through the open window. “That’s why she’s got the sitter lined up.”

“A baby needs structure, routine.”

He gave her another slimy once-over. “A stranger looking after her sure won’t give her that. She knows Penny.”

“You’re right. But I’m family, so she might as well get used to me.”

He pushed himself off the doorframe. “If you need anything, you let me know.”

Because you’ve been so helpful already? “Thank you.”

He took two steps onto the narrow deck, then turned. “Hey, there’s a party at the clubhouse next Saturday. Why don’t you come? Who knows, Felicia might show up. She was always up for a good party.”

Rory’s hold on Hannah, who busily gummed a strand of Rory’s hair while she mouthed nonsense syllables, tightened. Felicia was missing and he wanted her to go to a party? What kind of prehistoric slime was he? “Hannah—”

“I’ll pay for the sitter.”

As if that was going to make a difference. Don’t worry, Hannah, I’m not going to leave you.

The chain to Mike’s wallet jingled, catching Hannah’s attention. A wet strand of her own hair stuck against Rory’s cheek as Hannah reached a chubby hand down toward the chain. Mike didn’t seem to notice his daughter’s interest in him. He peeled three twenties from the wad, then handed them to Rory. When she didn’t free her hands to accept his gift, he stuffed the bills in the pocket of her linen pants, copping a feel as he released the cash.

“Uh, well, thanks.” She did her level best not to flinch. “I’ll think about it.”

His lecherous grin made her queasy. “You do that.”

They’re going to be all over you. Are you ready for that? Ace was right. She wasn’t ready for this. Not one bit.

FINDING TROUBLE had taken her longer than Ace thought. But his money was still safe. She’d found the jackpot before the sun had fully set. Was he going to have to blow his cover to keep Mike’s meat hooks off her on day one? He’d told Falconer this wasn’t a good idea, but had his boss listened? No. What pull did Rory have to make Falconer put an operation in jeopardy? Couldn’t be sex. The man didn’t see past his wife.

Ace melted into the shadows on the side of the wood-framed New England triple-decker, trying to keep tabs on the conversation between his target and his albatross. The thing about this old turn-of-the-century hurry-up housing was that it was built cheaply. Walls were thin and sound carried.

And of course, she was handling this all wrong. The tone of her voice was too uppity. He could almost see her looking down her dainty nose at Mike—even though she was a good eight inches shorter. That was going to go over real well. She didn’t even try to engage him in the usual polite conversation. No, the firebrand went straight to meaty questions that sounded like barely couched accusations. And what was she doing to the kid to have her bawling like that? Probably had the diaper on too tight or the pajamas on backwards. There wasn’t a maternal bone in that electric body.

Finally, Hannah’s cries lessened and turned to a watery gurgle. Mike’s weight shifted and the stairs creaked as he started down. Ace slipped down the street and made like he was just now rounding the corner to the building and his ground-floor apartment.

Mike straddled the bike and nodded a greeting. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

There was no such thing as partial allegiance to the gang. Full membership required becoming active in criminal activity. Ace knew this outing tonight was more than a deal; it was a test. One he couldn’t fail.

“Felicia home?” Ace took a half step toward the front door of his apartment as if he didn’t care one way or another.

“Nah, her sister’s in town and I was paying my respects.” Mike pressed the starter and his bike roared to life. Perfectly tuned, it purred tiger-smooth.

“Red hair?” Ace glanced up.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” Mike revved the engine.

Ace cracked a hungry-wolf smirk. You had to talk to Mike on his level. Women were not people; they were possessions. “I’ve always been partial to redheads.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Red hair means fire, if you know what I mean.”

Laughter exploded from Mike. “Not this one. Cold as ice, man. Cold as ice.”

“So she’s fair game?” He had to stake his claim early if he wanted to keep her safe. But he had to do it without stepping on toes if he was to keep his cover.

Mike’s gaze narrowed. “She’s all yours. But I’ll tell you, there’s easier tail to be had if you’re in need.”

“I’ve always liked a challenge.”

“Then you’ll love our run tonight.” Mike pulled out a vial from his pocket. The lump inside looked like a piece of dull quartz. “Want some?”

“Can’t get loaded while I’m on parole. Might get drug-tested. There ain’t no way I’m going back in the slam.” He could keep the drug offers at bay for a while, but he had to comply with some things. Ace was charged with infiltrating the gang as deeply as possible. Tonight that meant receiving stolen property—a load of semi-automatic rifles in exchange for meth—to show his loyalty.

The quality of methamphetamine that Mike provided wholesale to pushers was high. Every branch of law enforcement in the state wanted to find the lab supplying Mike’s gang community. But when pressed, busted dealers were more afraid of ratting on Mike than of going to jail. Tonight Ace had the chance to prove he was one of them, worthy of entering their sacred inner circle.

Other than Falconer, no other law enforcement jurisdiction knew who Ace was. This was to guard against a possible inside informant in some part of the alphabet soup of agencies trying to end up top dog when it came time to grab headlines. A mole somewhere had already cost a DEA agent his life. If anything went wrong, he’d be treated just like any other felon.

A certain sickness squeezed his gut. Always before action came a stab of apprehension. Natural. Desirable even. But it was his job and he’d do it—even if it meant skating a fine line between lawbreaker and law enforcer.

This corridor had to die. He wanted to send the bikers—the ones selling crack, receiving stolen property and guns—to jail. And the sooner he could become one of them, the sooner he could shut it down and get back to getting his life—and Bianca’s—back on track.

Mike nodded and returned the lump to the vial, then to his pocket. “I’ll meet you by the warehouse in ten minutes.”

By the time Ace got there, Mike would have on a business suit and a minivan ready to go. Wearing your colors while committing a felony didn’t pay. Mike had learned appearing straight was a good cover for criminal acts.

Time to clean up and make sure every detail of this little outing was caught on tape.

Smile, scum, you’re on candid camera.

WHEN ACE RETURNED home three hours later, he was wrung out and strung out. He wanted nothing more than to scrub away the stink from this job and fall into bed. But as he rounded the corner, a baby’s exhausted yet mournful cries stopped him. He looked up to the second story, saw light in the window and Rory pacing back and forth, bouncing the baby against her shoulder. Her body language screamed fear and desperation.

Stuffing both his hands in the front pockets of his black Dockers, he let his head fall back. A crooked moon—a fingernail-paring shy of full—hung in the sky rimmed with a ring of cold light that made the stars around it seem to shiver. He didn’t want to go up. He didn’t want to get mixed up with Rory and her quixotic quest for answers she didn’t really want.

But the kid’s tears cut him. He remembered what it was like to want someone with your whole being and not understand why you were being denied.

“You can’t fix the world, Ace,” he told himself as he started up the stairs. “You can’t even fix your own tiny sandbox slice of it.”

But he could quiet tears. He’d gotten good at that. He wasn’t doing this for Rory. He was doing it for the kid. He’d been there.

THE KNOCK at this ungodly hour made Rory skid to a halt and her gaze fly to the door. Had she locked it after Mike left? Of course, there was no safety chain. No deadbolt, either. Certainly no security system. Felicia had often joked she didn’t even need to lock her door at all. The pause in action seemed to fortify Hannah and her cries became lamentations worthy of Jeremiah.

“Who is it?” Rory redoubled her jiggling of Hannah. Was it too much? She’d read somewhere about shaken baby syndrome and was suddenly petrified the police had come to drag her to jail for endangering a child.

“Ace,” came the answer drowned by Hannah’s wail.

Shoot and drat. She didn’t need him here right now. What could he possibly want at this hour of the night? “Now’s not a good time.”

He came in anyway. The room seemed to fold in around him, making the lime armchair and the oak rocker look as if they were meant for a dollhouse. She’d obviously not locked the blasted door. As he ambled toward her with his sure and steady stride, her pulse quickened, her breath shortened. Nothing to be afraid of, she assured herself, and frowned at the wooly flutter in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. That was it.

With one look, Ace seemed to assess the whole situation and find her lacking. She bristled and barked at him before he could cut her down. “I’m handling it.”

“I can see that.”

His mocking tone didn’t help her mood. Had she ever been this tired? She wanted nothing more than to go back to D.C. and the Maplewood Library where someone would be glad to see her. He reached for Hannah.

Rory swung away, rounding over the baby. Where had this protective instinct come from? “No.”

“You’re too tense.” A vein of irritation ran through his voice.

Too tense? She was perfectly relaxed. Okay, maybe not. But with good reason. She’d gone over every inch of the checklist on the web site and found no grounds for Hannah’s obvious distress. Dry diaper. Full tummy. No signs of teething. No fever. No rash. Just buckets of tears that were ripping her heart and soul to shreds. How did mothers survive a child’s infancy?

“Just hand her over for a minute.”

Despite his presentable black Dockers and black silk shirt, Ace looked like the quintessential bad boy and wore an attitude to match. Ripped, that’s what the teenage girls back home would have called him. He had an athlete’s body that must have taken years of pumping iron to sculpt into this rugged beauty. Unlike Felicia, Rory had never entertained bad-boy fantasies, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now—no matter how tired she was.

“I’m trying to help.” When he shook his head, the lamplight caught the tired lines webbing his eyes. She’d seen him talk to Mike and walk into the apartment below Felicia’s. Were the baby’s cries keeping him up? However much danger a man like him could pose a grown woman, she didn’t think Sebastian would hire a man who would abuse a child. And wasn’t Ace his sister’s guardian?

With a sigh of resignation, she handed the bawling, squirming Hannah to Ace. In his big hands, her cries immediately abated by half.

That wasn’t fair. She’d done all the work. He grinned at her—a much too rakish smile. “I told you you were too tense.”

“I’ve tried everything.”

His gaze took in her laptop with its parenting page in full view. “Some things you can’t learn from books, sweetheart.”

Before she could spit out a snappy comeback, he strode toward the bedroom at the back of the apartment. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back.”

As promised, he was. He cradled the baby in the crook of his arm as if he’d done this before, and he carried one of Felicia’s sweaters in his free hand. He launched it at her. She caught it and slanted him a puzzled look.

“Put it on.” He rocked Hannah whose cries now seemed to take a major effort.

Rory held the blue sweater out in front of her and frowned at the suspicious stain on the shoulder. “I’m not cold.”

“Do you have to argue about everything? Just put it on.”

She was too tired to protest, so she slipped on the V-neck pullover. Ace handed her Hannah who snuggled against the wool and soon fell asleep.

“What just happened?”

“You confused her.” Ace’s voice was both rough and warm. He looked much too satisfied, and she wanted to smack his smirk off his face as much as she wanted to hug him for making Hannah stop crying. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could have held on before she’d joined Hannah’s chorus of tears with her own.

Hannah looked like an angel once more, becoming heavy in Rory’s arms as she relaxed more deeply into sleep. How could someone so small have made such a big fuss? “I’m not following you.”

“You look like Felicia, but you don’t sound like Felicia. And you don’t smell like Felicia.”

The proverbial light bulb finally clicked on. “And Felicia’s scent is on the sweater.”

“Right.”

“Where did you learn that trick?”

“The school of hard knocks, sweetheart.”

She cringed at “sweetheart,” but said nothing, afraid to tense up too much and set Hannah off on another crying jag.

She glanced at the crib. Would Hannah stay asleep if she put her down?

As if he’d read her mind, Ace said, “Go ahead, put her down. She’s exhausted. She’ll probably sleep through till morning.”

Rory carefully laid Hannah in her crib. Clutching the quilt, she wasn’t sure if she should wrap her in it or not. What if Hannah pushed her face in the folds and smothered herself?

Ace grabbed the blanket and tucked it expertly around Hannah’s pajama-clad body, leaving her splayed arms free.

“I’d get some shut-eye while you can, if I were you,” he said, hands on hips, looking every bit the rogue pirate.

The advice made perfect sense. Why couldn’t she just shut up and take it? “You’re not me.”

He kicked up both hands in surrender. “Doesn’t matter to me either way.”

She ran a hand through her hair. Her fingers got stuck on dried carrot mush. She needed a long, hot—no make that scalding—shower. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“They’re all long days when there’s a baby around.”

She didn’t like the mocking shine in his dark-chocolate eyes, but she was way past witty and nearly all the way into zombie. She sank into the lime armchair and let her tense muscles relax. “How does she do it?”

“Felicia doesn’t try to go it alone. She asks for help.”

Implied fault stressed the silence. Trust. She didn’t have any.

Why should she? What did she know about him? That he was one of Sebastian’s Seekers. A plus. That he was playacting the role of a biker. A minus. That he was good with Hannah. Another plus. That his skin was olive, his cheekbones sharp, his nose straight, his mouth generous, kissable. She quashed a groan. Definitely a minus.

She was being too sensitive. She was letting his very presence become a burr because his expertise with Hannah made her feel incompetent.

But trust grew with time and intimacy. Neither of these existed between them. How could they when Sebastian had handed them opposite ends of the same rope?

She cocked her head, feeling the steam of temper crushing her chest, pounding at her temples. “Trusting a biker is what got Felicia into all this trouble.”

He bent toward her, resting a hand on the back of the armchair, trapping a strand of runaway hair beneath his palm. His body heat shimmied into her. His scent of sweat and musk had her turning her nose toward it as if it were an aroma worth sniffing. His gaze was so sharp she angled her head to avoid its honed edge and felt it graze her anyway. “No, what got her into this mess was not trusting her gut.”