No one stopped her.

Rowdy watched Chaya, the paleness of her skin, the agony in her brown eyes as she watched the young woman leave. In Natches’s eyes there was pure, demonic wrath. If Rowdy didn’t stop him, he’d go after the girl. What really scared Rowdy was the fear he’d find that damned gun he’d named Trudy.

Outside, the sound of the powerful motorcycles revving caused a brutal flinch to jerk Chaya against her husband. Tearing out of his arms she raced from the office, a harsh sound of pain escaping her throat as the sound of a cycle racing through the parking lot to the exit echoed through the room.

Chaya stopped at the door, her fingers tight on the wood, her breathing rough, loud.

“She’s lying,” Chaya whispered, tears roughening her voice as Natches pulled her into his arms again, holding her to his heart as her fingers clenched in the material of his shirt. “She’s lying . . .” she whispered again.

Rowdy met Natches’s tormented gaze and in them he saw the suspicion that Angel wasn’t lying.

“She’s lying . . . That’s not my baby. Oh God, that’s not my Beth . . .”

If Rowdy wasn’t mistaken, even Chaya wasn’t convinced.

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