"I think we can't rule anything out," I respond carefully. "These women were under their control for years. Stockholm syndrome is real. Threats against family members are effective."
"Cara's been helping you with intel," Osprey points out, watching me closely. "She know about Burns Harbor?"
My jaw tightens. "She knew we were watching the route. Not specifics of today's operation."
"Still—" Zip begins.
"I'll talk to her," I cut him off, tone making clear it's not up for debate. "I know how to read her."
Vulture studies me for a long moment before nodding. "Do it. Tonight. We need to know if she's holding anything back."
The meeting continues, focusing on increased security measures and plans to retaliate against the Reapers. But my mind circles back to Cara. The woman who stitched my wound with steady hands. The woman who once promised to love me forever. The woman who still hasn't told me everything about what happened to her.
By the time we adjourn, it's past midnight. Rain pounds against the clubhouse roof, matching the throbbing in my shoulder. The antibiotics Doc forced on me are making me nauseous, or maybe that's the thought of what I have to do next.
I find myself outside Cara's door before I've fully committed to the conversation. My knuckles rap against the wood before I can reconsider.
Seconds stretch to eternity before the door cracks open. Cara peers out, hair damp from a shower, wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of me.
"You should be resting," she says immediately.
"We need to talk." My voice comes out harsher than intended. "May I come in?"
She hesitates only briefly before stepping back. The room is sparse but neat—bed made with military precision, a few books stacked on the nightstand. A notebook sits open on the desk, pages filled with handwriting I don't recognize as hers.
"How's the shoulder?" she asks, keeping her distance.
"Fine." I remain standing, unwilling to make this comfortable. "I need to ask you some questions about the trafficking operation. Official club business."
Something shutters in her expression. "Of course. What do you want to know?"
"The Burns Harbor route. What exactly did you hear about it during your captivity?"
She sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap. "Just fragments. That it was a newer route they were developing after losing access to Chicago. That it involved Reapers territory and protection."
"Names? Specific locations?"
"No names. They were careful about that." She frowns slightly. "Locations were coded. Green Point meant something to them, but I don't know what."
I pace the small room, frustration mounting. "How did they communicate? Phone calls? In person?"
"Both. There was a man who visited monthly—well-dressed, expensive watch. They treated him differently. With respect, maybe even fear."
"Did you ever hear anything about informants? Someone inside the Saints?"
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "You think I'm feeding information to the Reapers."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I think someone is. And I need to rule out every possibility."
"Including that I'm working for the people who held me captive for five years?" Her voice is deadly quiet. "The people who raped and tortured me? Who broke my bones when I tried to escape?"
I stop pacing, forced to face the hurt and anger radiating from her. "Cara?—"
"No." She stands abruptly. "I've been trying to help you. I've told you everything I know. And you still don't trust me."
"It's not about trust," I argue. "It's about being thorough. Men nearly died today because someone leaked our plans."
"And I'm the convenient suspect?" She laughs bitterly. "Why would I help the Saints rescue other women if I was working for the traffickers?"