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Then Joy's voice echoed in my memory. Not the panicked one from my imagination, but the strong, determined woman who'd crawled into my lap after I'd told her about my failures overseas.

You accomplished the impossible, Graham. You got Kent out alive when you both should have died.

I remembered the way she'd looked at me when she said those words. Like she could see straight through to the core of who I was and found me worthy, despite everything I’d shared with her.

You've been carrying Kent and Todd and Roy and Hamm on your shoulders because you couldn't accept that sometimes good men die and there's nothing their team leader can do about it.

The beeping slowed as my heart rate dropped back toward normal. The crushing weight on my chest started lifting again.

Joy was right. I'd been so focused on the mission that went wrong that I'd forgotten about all the ones that went right. All the men I'd brought home safely. All the objectives we'd accomplished against impossible odds.

And right now, Joy needed the man who'd survived twelve years as a Navy SEAL. Not the broken veteran who beat himself up over things beyond his control.

I sat up straighter in the hospital bed, ignoring the fire in my ribs. My mind cleared, shifting into the tactical mode that had kept me alive in hostile territory.

Glenda had Joy, but she'd made mistakes. Left evidence. Exposed herself on security cameras. Every second that passed gave us more information to work with.

We were going to find her. We were going to bring Joy home. And Glenda was going to pay for what she'd done.

“That's better.” Trenda's voice carried approval. “I can see you coming back to us.”

I reached over and yanked the IV from my arm, ignoring the sharp sting as the needle came free. Blood welled up, but I pressed my thumb over the spot to stop the bleeding.

“Graham, what are you doing?” Ava moved closer to the bed.

“Getting the hell out of here.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the room tilting slightly before my vision cleared. “I need my pants.”

None of the women looked surprised. Trenda walked to the small closet and pulled open the door.

“There aren't any pants in here.” She turned back to me with empty hands. “Just your bloody shirt from the accident.”

“I don't give a shit.” I stood up, testing my balance. The hospital gown barely covered my ass, but modesty was the least of my concerns right now. I grabbed the thin blanket from the bed and wrapped it around my waist. “Let's go.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The world came back in pieces. First, the ache in my skull that felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my temples. Then the taste of metal coating my tongue. The sound of humming, cheerful and off-key, drifted from somewhere nearby.

I tried to lift my head, but it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My eyelids fluttered open, and I blinked against the soft morning light streaming through windows that weren't mine. This wasn't the hospital. This wasn't anywhere I recognized.

Panic shot through my veins like ice water.

I was sitting in a wooden dining chair, my ankles bound to the chair legs. More rope circled my waist and torso, keeping me upright and immobile. One of my arms hung free at my side, but it felt sluggish and disconnected when I tried to move it. The other was tied to the arm of the chair.

Whatever Glenda had injected me with was still working its way through my system.

The kitchen around me looked like something out of a magazine. Pale yellow walls, white cabinets with glass fronts showing off mismatched china, and a view of a lake through the window above the sink. Quaint. Homey. The kind of place where families gathered for Sunday dinner.

Not the kind of place where some crazy lady held another person captive.

A plate sat on the table in front of me. Orange cranberry scones, perfectly golden and still warm from the oven. A plastic cup filled with lemonade. A small bowl of what looked like clotted cream. Even a plastic spoon, the kind you'd give a toddler.

My stomach lurched. Hell, they even smelled like the scones I usually baked.

“Oh good, you're awake.”

Glenda appeared in my peripheral vision, a mixing bowl cradled in her arms like a baby. She'd changed out of the clothes she'd worn to the hospital and now sported a floral apron over a yellow sundress. Her hair was styled differently too, softer somehow, and she'd applied lipstick in a shade of pink that made her look younger.

She looked like someone's favorite aunt. Someone who baked cookies for the church social and volunteered at the animal shelter.