The officer sitting across from her tapped his pen on the desk impatiently, "This is your friend, don’t you want to help him?"

"Of course I want to help him!" She uncrossed her arms and looked the man in the eyes. "I don’t know what happened to him. I was going over to the Dearings’ to see how they were doing, because it was the holidays and I hadn’t seen them in over a month."

He looked at the paper in front of him and she barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "According to the Dearings you didn’t stop in to say goodbye before you left and you didn’t try and contact them when you first got back."

"My bad."

"I find it hard to believe, Cynthia, that you just happened to come over in time to see Mitchell faint in the front yard."

"Yes, well, I find it hard to believe you passed grade school."

"You what?"

She smiled her most innocent smile, "I said, could I have some tea?"

He narrowed his eyes, his patience obviously wearing thin. "That is not what you said.

With a casual shrug, she stood up, going to the little hot water heater in the corner and poured some steaming water into a glass. She sifted through the small pouches of Herbal Tea until she found one that she recognized and walked back, still smiling as she sat down. "I’m going to tell you this one more time and I want you to really listen."

The officer stared at her, open mouthed, unable believe that a fifteen-year-old was taking the piss in his interrogation. Cynthia set down the cup and put her elbows on the table, leaning forward as she spoke. "I went to see the Dearings because I was feeling guilty that I hadn’t spoken to them since before I left. When I got there, there was a car parked in front of their house. It was a black four door, I don’t remember what make or model, and I wasn’t thinking to look at the plates. Mitch got out of the car and it drove off. He seemed to be... I dunno, in shock or something. When I called out to him, he passed out and I started yelling for Mrs. Dearing."

"Did you see the driver."

She did roll her eyes this time, sitting back in the chair, "I didn’t see anything!"

The room went silent and she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest again. Honestly, was the man retarded or something? Of course, she wasn’t telling the truth, but that was beside the point, because he couldn’t very well know that and until she talked to Mitch she wasn’t telling the police anything. Discreetly, she dropped her arms and slipped her hand into the pocket of her coat, thumbing the pink mini-iPod that had fallen out of Mitch’s pocket when he’d fainted. At the time, she’d meant to give it to the police, but now, she wasn’t really sure what she should do with it. She could hardly blame Mitch for having a sexual affair with an older man and maybe Mitch wanted to protect that man. She certainly wanted to protect Paul, at least, unless it came to light that he had done something wrong.

The door to the interrogation room opened and all of her hostility waned as she saw Mr. Dearing standing in the doorway. "Parker, go get me some a soda."

The young officer didn’t say anything, he just nodded and got up, brushing past his superior. Cynthia’s resolve melted under his stern gaze and she pouted at the floor. Mr. Dearing closed the door and sat down across from her and for the first time in the hour that she’d been in the station, she felt unsure of herself.

"Cynthia."

"Hello, Mr. Dearing." She’d let go of the iPod the moment the door had opened, now she pulled her hand out and clasped her fingers together, fidgeting. The mere prospect of lying to Mr. Dearing made her feel light headed. At home, he was nothing more than a big teddy bear, in his uniform, he was damn intimidating.

"Cynthia, I want you to tell me the truth."

With a frustrated whine she put her arms on the table and laid her head on it. "I can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because I honestly don’t know the truth. I’ve my suspicions, but... they’re nothing more than that."

A hand fell on her head softly and she looked up, feeling tears welling up in her eyes, real ones. God, it had been simply ages since she’d really cried. Mr. Dearing smiled at her, kind, but stern, "You went to London to look for him?"

She nodded.

"You found someone who matched the description of the man we were looking for?"

"I found someone who knew the man that matched the description, but he said that he didn’t know anything."

Mr. Dearing leaned forward across the table, bringing himself eye level with her. "Did you believe him?"

After a moment, she shook her head. "Not really, but Mitch is only fifteen and he could have just been trying to protect his friend. I don’t know anything more than that, I really don’t and I... I don’t want to get someone in trouble when there probably isn’t anything to it." She thought bitterly of the affectionate display between Paul and Mitch. If Mitch had done all of this because he’d wanted it, she wasn’t going to get Paul in trouble for it.

She sniffed back her tears and sat up, feeling a little more confident. "Is Mitch awake yet?"

Mr. Dearing nodded, but didn’t seem inclined to move. "The hospital called to tell me he woke up about twenty minutes ago."

"Is he okay?"

"I’m not sure, yet. They think it was mostly shock that made him pass out like that. You know, Cynthia, you owe it to Mitch to tell me if you even suspect something."

She gulped down the knot in her throat and nodded. "I know, but... I just want to talk to him first, see what he has to say before I start ratting on people that might or might not have done something."

He sighed, but stood up and held out his arm, putting it around her shoulder when she stood to join him. "Come on, he’d probably be thrilled to see you and, besides, I can question you in the car." She stuck her tongue out and was relieved when he smiled. "You realize you are going to be in a world of trouble when your mother finds out you lied about why you wanted to go to London?"

"Yeah, I get that."

*****

Mitch sat on the edge of the hospital bed, pulling at the hem of the overly large jumper his mother had brought for him. Nervously, he pulled his tongue ring between his teeth and listened to the comforting click of it against his teeth. It was all he could do not to hyperventilate.

"Are you okay, sweeite?"

He jumped a little when his mom touched his hand and then relaxed, "I’m sorry."

She smiled and stroked his hair, pulling him towards her so that he was leaning against her shoulder. "It’s okay, love, mommy’s here."

The door opened and Mitch tensed and pulled away from his mother as the doctor walked in, holding his report and studying in. He flipped a page and his brows knitted together, "Mrs. Dearing, would you mind stepping outside with me for a moment?"

She reached down and put her hand on top of Mitch’s. "Anything you have to say, you can say in front of my son." So far, his mother had been everything he could have possibly hoped for. She hadn’t questioned him and when he’d said that he didn’t want to talk about it, she hadn’t pushed him to. He knew that she had permitted them to run some tests on him while he was unconscious and while it bothered him a little, he figured that he’d rather not have been awake for them. However, he was glad that she wasn’t going to talk to the doctor’s without him there. He’d much rather know what she knew than have to guess and get it wrong.

The doctor looked up and sighed, his gaze wavering between them for several moment before settling on her. "There’s no delicate way to say this, but we found indications of rape."

"Rape?" Her hand over his stilled and the blood drained from Mitch’s face. Okay, maybe he didn’t want to be here for this.

"From the amount and extent of the scarring, I’d estimate that it’s been ongoing since he first disappeared."

Mitch just managed to gulp down his vomit.

"There are also signs of malnourishment, drug use, mostly heavy sedatives, but some narcotics, as well as various other forms of abuse."

For a moment, his mother didn’t say anything and when she did, her voice was choked up. "Can we step outside?"

Mitch couldn’t bring himself to look at her as she squeezed his hand and stepping through the door with the doctor. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, pulling on the tongue ring in an attempt to get himself under control. He’d known that they would know, his father was always talking to his mother about cases that he was working on and how helpful the doctors were. He’d mentioned things they could get from hair and blood samples, not to mention the physical proof. It was all very fascinating. At least, it had been until it was used against him.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, propping his heels on the table and waited. Eventually, they would start asking who and he still wasn’t sure what he was going to tell them. Certainly not the truth, because while Richard may not have verbal threatened him, the threat was always implied and Mitch had no doubt that if he spoke up it wouldn’t just be Mitch that would pay for it, but his family, his friends, anyone he had told.

Putting his head on his knees, he tried to breathe against the tight restriction in his chest. He’d wanted so badly to come home, but he was beginning to think it would have been better if he’d died in that room, because at least then he wouldn’t have to put up with the looks of disgust and pity on his parent’s faces or deal with the unexpected inability to let anyone touch him without flinching.

Mitch rubbed the tears that were running down his cheeks off onto his shirt. For the first time since Richard had first taken him, he wished he could just die.

*****

Cynthia sat in the chair of the waiting area, stunned. Mr. Dearing had sat her down and explained the situation to her after he’d talked to the doctor. Mitch wasn’t doing very well. So far, he’d said nothing, literally refusing to speak. He flinched away when people tried to touch him, even his mother. He kept going from very emotional, to blank without warning. He’d thrown up twice for no discernable reason. Other than that, there were physical signs that he had been sexually assaulted, drugged, abused, and a good number of other things that Cynthia didn’t even want to think about.

"Cynthia?"

She looked up at him, trying to get her thoughts in order. God, she’d been so upset when she first saw him, thinking that he’d just run away to be with someone and the fact that person might have been Paul had just made her even more angry. She didn’t even know why, but now? Mitch had been raped, drugged, tortured from the sound of it. Now she had even more questions than she’d had in the beginning, because she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Paul hadn’t done those things, but then who had?

Oh, god, it was Richard. Richard had picked Mitch up at the bar, taken him home and kept him there, drugged him, raped him for months. Not only that, but he’d done it before, several times if Paul’s indications were anything to go by.

Mr. Dearing looked concerned, but he pressed on. "Cynthia, I think maybe you have the answers you need and now I need some. Whatever you know, tell me."

She pulled her eyes from the floor to look at him. "Not until I talk to Mitch." She had to be certain, because she didn’t want to believe that Paul would let that happen.

For a moment, she thought Mr. Dearing would fight her on it, but Mrs. Dearing put a hand on his shoulder. "It’s okay, dear, she’s just as shocked as we are. Take deep breaths, Cynthia, you’re looking a little green." When Cynthia was sure she had her stomach under control, she took Mrs. Dearing’s offered hand and allowed her to lead her through the hospital halls.

They stopped outside of a closed door and Mrs. Dearing looked at her more sternly than Cynthia had ever known her to. "I know that you’re trying to do what you think is best, but we need to know who did this to him. Whoever it is, is a sick man and while he’s still out there Mitch is in danger, not to mention every other boy this man might come in contact with. Do you understand that?"

When Cynthia nodded, Mrs. Dearing opened the door, motioning for her to go in. Cynthia didn’t look up until the door had closed behind her and she knew that her and Mitch were alone in the room. Mitch was sitting on the examination table, his legs hanging off and his head down. He looked so thin! His hair was longer, and he’d lost some of the color in his skin. She didn’t even need to see his eyes to know they wouldn’t be as bright or full of life as they had been before.

"Mitch?"

He looked up, startled out of his thoughts. "Cynthia."

She was relieved that he was speaking to her. At least he wasn’t so traumatized he’d lost his voice entirely. He probably just didn’t want to answer their questions. "How are you? Have they finished poking you with needles?"

A ghost of a smile graced his lips. "You know how much I hate needles."

There was a funny click and a subtle slur to his words, but she ignored it, because it was a relief just to hear him again. "Your mum says that you aren’t talking."

He gave a soft, hollow chuckled and hung his head, "I don’t know what to say to her."

Before she could stop herself, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him gently, but firmly and ignoring the way he tensed up, because he relaxed just as quickly. "I’m so glad you’re safe."

Hesitantly, he put his arms around her and hugged her back. "I’m... I’m really glad to see you."

She nodded into his shoulder, but couldn’t bring herself to let go. Besides, it was easier to talk when she wasn’t looking at him, especially considering what she needed to talk to him about. "Mitch, I need to know... I need you to tell me if Paul had anything to do with this."

He body stiffened, "I don’t know who..."

"Don’t say that, Mitch. I know you know him, just tell me if he had anything to do with what Richard did to you."

At the mention of Richard, Mitch yanked back suddenly and looked at her, his eyes wide with fright. "How do... what...."

She flinched, "Paul’s got a big mouth when he’s drinking. He said some things that didn’t make a lot of sense until... well, until they told me about your condition. I know, okay, but if Paul did any of this..."

"Paul didn’t do anything." Mitch said it very quickly and then rushed on, as if he couldn’t stop himself. "He was nice. He was the only one that was. He took care of me and he kept Richard off me when he could. He even brought me things."

Brought him thing? "The duffle bags?"

He shook his head, "No, most of that was Richard. A lot of the time he liked to pretend I was there because I wanted to be and I think he kind of thought that if he bought me things I wouldn’t try and escape. I don’t know, really, he’s kind of... you know."

After a moment, Cynthia nodded, "I get that. You really should tell someone, though."

"No." His voice was firm and loud this time, demanding. "I don’t care how many people know what or how, but they can’t find out who."

"What?"

"You don’t understand, Cynthia, he’s fucking insane and the only reason I’m even alive is because I don’t intend to tell anyone. That you even know is..." he shook his head, "but at least it wasn’t me who told you and maybe he won’t find out if you don’t say anything."

Cynthia tried to touch his hand, but he pulled away again. "Mitch, listen to me, your father is the chief, he can protect you."

Mitch shook his head emphatically, "He can’t protect me from this. Please?"

"Mitch, he..."

Mitch stared at her, hard and she faltered. "Richard had this thing sometimes where he would wrap his hands around my neck when he was... you know and he wouldn’t choke me, he would just hold them there so that I knew he could if he wanted to and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. That’s who he is. It was all I could do just to survive there and I can’t face that again, I can’t even take the chance that he’ll get his hands on me again, because if it wasn’t for Paul I don’t think I would have gotten out of there. So, please, please don’t give him a reason to come after me, Cynthia."

Cynthia wasn’t one to cry. In fact, she could count on one hand the number of times she had. When her dog died, when her parents told her they were getting divorced, when Mitch first disappeared, and when she’d been afraid the Dearings would hate her. That was it. But now, hearing Mitch talk about his captivity, begging her not to say anything, she couldn’t hold back the tears. Wiping her face, she finally nodded. She didn’t want Mitch hurt and if he really thought that this was better, maybe he was right.

"Okay, I won’t say anything."

He nodded back to her and looked at his knees. "Thank you. You know, one of the times you called Paul, I was sitting next to the phone when it rang." She gaped. "He, uh, picked it up and left the room to answer it, but... well, it was nice to hear your voice. It made those last few days easier."

Cynthia opened her mouth, not sure what she was going to say, but a soft knock cut her off and she turned around to see Mrs. Dearing opening the door. She was smiling, but there was a sadness behind it. Maybe it would be better if everyone knew and maybe Mr. Dearing could protect Mitch, but... but maybe not and Cynthia wasn’t prepared to take that risk, especially not if it meant breaking a promise to Mitch.

Squeezing Mitch’s hand, she stepped away from him and forced herself to look Mrs. Dearing in the eyes, "I’m sorry, I was wrong," before brushing past her and leaving.

*****

Home.

It was strange to be sitting in his own room, but comforting. His parents hadn’t said a word on the drive home from the hospital, but that had been comforting too, because the only thing anyone was interested in talking about was who had done this to him and why wasn’t he talking. In truth, he really wasn’t sure why, except that he didn’t want to answer questions and he wasn’t sure what he’d say otherwise. Honestly, ‘hi’ seemed a bit understated.

Mitch sat on his small bed in his small room and looked at his overly cluttered walls. They hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t even made his bed. Slowly, Mitch got up and pulled the blankets and quilts up, straightening them before sitting back down. Better. He eyed the Arctic Monkeys poster on the wall, overlapped by some postcards that Cynthia had sent him when she’d gone to Italy with her mother on a business trip, which were in turn overlapped by pictures of him and his friends, which overlapped several other posters of half naked men.

He stretched his feet out, touching his toes to the wall. It quelled the nausea some, but not enough. Standing up again, he pulled down the Abercrombie posters, mindless of whatever else came down with them. By the time he stopped some ten minutes later, he was surrounded by torn paper and panting, but the walls were bare and the sick feeling was receding.

Sitting back on the bed, he stared at the wall again. Better, much better. The duffle bags and backpack were with the police. They were going through them to try and find some clue as to who had had him. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the mini-iPod and ran his thumb over the unscratched display. He’d made Paul pull over and get it out of his bag during the drive because he’d been bored.

Cynthia had given it back to him, just before he was released from the hospital. Part of him wanted to throw it away, like all other useless things Richard had given him, but another part... another part just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Just like he couldn’t bring himself to take the piercings out. Laying on the bed, he plugged the iPod into his ears and clicked it on, turning the volume up and closing his eyes.

It had been twenty four hours since Paul had sat on Richard’s large bed, telling him that he was taking him home. Twenty four hours, three of which were spent driving and the rest at the hospital. Wasn’t it incredibly ironic that after spending so long wondering if he would be able to live through Richard, this seemed so much harder? He could handle Richard and the others in that room, because he knew what to expect, he’d learned every unpleasant kink they had and he’d learned how to manipulate them and live through them, but here... here he wasn’t really sure what to expect or how to please anyone.

With a sigh, he let himself slip into sleep.

*****

Paul looked at his watch. He’d dropped Mitch off exactly twenty three hours ago. It was two in the afternoon in England. Where was Mitch? Had they taken him to the hospital? If they had, was he home now? Had he talked to the police? He closed his eyes as the plane bumped the tarmac and the roaring of the brakes shook the plane.

If Mitch had talked to the police, there was no doubt in Paul’s mind that there would be an armed escort waiting at the gate when he got off. In fact, he almost hoped there was. What Richard had done, what they all had done to that kid was wrong in the deepest sense of the word and as much as he didn’t want to go to jail for the rest of his life, he knew he deserved it.

"This is your captain, we’ve landed in Los Angeles. It’s eight ten in the evening, the temperature is..."

He tuned out the sounds of people shifting in their seats, anxious to move after thirteen hours of sitting. Looking out the window, he tried to spot police cars or any indication that someone was waiting for him, but there was nothing, just the blinking lights, indicating where the plane was supposed to go.

"Please remain seated until the plane comes to a full and complete stop. We hope you’ve enjoyed traveling Virgin Airlines and look forward to seeing you again."

He nearly laughed, not really sure why he found that funny, but he did. Maybe it was because he’d spent the last thirteen hours imagining getting off the plane and being escorted right back onto it to be taken back to England for questioning. Of course, they could always just question him here. It wasn’t like Paul had any intentions of trying to withhold information. Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, he’d decided that if they did arrest him, he would tell them everything, hell, he’d draw a bloody diagram if that was what they wanted. It was the least he could do.

The plane stopped and he stood up automatically, following the other first class passengers in getting up and pulling bags out from under the seats. He hadn’t stored anything in the overhead compartment. In fact, he hadn’t brought that much with him. Just a suitcase with some clothes and a rolling carry-on with a couple of books. The entire time he’d packed, he’d been waiting for a knock on the door, for the police to bust it in, anything, but nothing had happened, just like nothing happened when he walked off the plane.

The lobby was empty the way airports shouldn’t be, only a few stranglers stood around, waiting for loved ones to de-board. No police, no flashing lights, no guns. He blinked a few times to get his orientation and when he finally looked around again, he saw Richard smiling and waving at him from the back of the crowd.

Gripping his carry on firmly, he stepped away from the people exiting and went to Richard, his chest aching as the man instantly slipped his arms around him in the way that had become so natural for them. It was caring, friendly, loving even and the kiss that followed was even more so. Of course, the kiss caught Paul a little of guard, but he melted into it out of instinct and sighed happily at the sweep of tongue around his mouth.

Richard pulled back, but kept his arms slung low around Paul’s waist, looking at him with that cocky smile that said everything was going to be all right and it was, wasn’t it? The police hadn’t picked him up at home and they weren’t here waiting for him. Mitch hadn’t told anyone yet and probably never would, stupid kid that he was.

"How was the flight?"

Paul ignored the stares they were getting, "Horrid. I sat next to the smelliest man god ever had the audacity to create and no one should be forced to sit in those seats for that long."

Richard chuckled and his arms slid away, his hand taking Paul’s and starting to lead him away, probably towards the luggage carousel. "On the way back we’ll take a private jet, just you and me and we’ll join the mile high club."

It was nice to be with Richard again, it made all of his problems and doubts float away. Richard always took care of everything and especially now, with Mitch gone, it felt right again. "Is that a promise?"

Richard stopped for a moment and pecked him on the lips, "I always keep my promises, love."

Love, that was such a nice word, a comforting word. It didn’t even matter that it probably hadn’t been meant as anything more than a silly endearment. The driver had already secured Paul’s bag by the time they got there and they followed him into the waited limo. Richard looked at the suitcase warily. "That’s all you brought? You’re allowed two, you know."

Paul shrugged, "It really doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll be spending most of the time in costume anyway. If I need anything, you can buy it for me."

Richard raised an eyebrow and crawled in after Paul, sitting next to him. "Maybe I won’t buy you anything. Maybe I’ll make you run around the flat naked all day."

Paul’s cheeks heated up and his pants tighten, but a cough from the driver ruined the moment. Richard sat back and pulled on his seat belt. "Go ahead, we’re ready." He turned to Paul, "They’ve got us a flat five minutes walk from the studio. It’s huge, actually, and it’s just for us. Two bedrooms, furnished with a television, cable, and a computer room complete with two computers and high speed internet. You’ll love it."

They’d barely made it off airport property when Richard’s phone went off and Paul felt the blood drain from his face as he heard the familiar voice gruffly calling, "Shut up and pick up."

Richard cursed, "What the bloody hell?" He picked up the phone, "What? Say that again?! You’re sure? He isn’t just hiding or something? You check under the... no, I’m not saying you’re stupid, but how else..." There was a long pause and Paul could feel Richard’s eyes sliding towards him. "I’ll call you back."

The limo filled with silence and Paul closed his eyes. He didn’t think Richard would hurt him, but still...

"Driver, pull over."

"Sir, I can’t, I’m on the highway..."

"Then get off the bloody highway and pull over!"

The driver mumbled something unintelligible and Paul tried to get his thoughts together, tried to decide what he was going to say. As soon as the car stopped at the back parking lot of a diner, Richard grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him out of the car, not bothering to wait until he had his feet under him.

"Where is he?"

"I..." Paul gulped and shoved his hands in his jeans, looking at the ground. Christ, he was a moron, what had he been thinking? Mitch’s face swam in front of his eyes and he nodded minutely. He’d done the right thing. He’d done exactly what Richard had done with every one of the other boys and just like with them, Mitch hadn’t told. "I took him home."

"You what?!" Richard’s face contorted with rage far greater than Paul had ever seen. "Are you fucking stupid?!" He lunged forward and beat his fist against the top of the car next to Paul. "What were you thinking?! I told you Jessie would take care of it. All you had to do was leave him there and get on a bloody plane!"

"I know!" Paul sighed and looked at Richard, "I know what you wanted me to do, but I couldn’t. Richard, he’s fifteen, he deserved to go home, just like all the others..."

"The others did not go home, Paul! Don’t be an idiot, because I know you’re not. You live in this bloody fantasy world and maybe that’s my fault some, but it’s mostly yours. I can’t let them just go home, Paul, they would tell, or someone would investigate and find out."

Paul’s blood froze and he opened his mouth to say something, but Richard put a hand over it and leaned in, keeping his voice low so the driver couldn’t hear. "‘Take them home’ means that I pack their bags, I put them in my car and I meet Jessie in a very remote part of the country where he will have dug a convenient grave exactly six feet deep. I strangle them and I bury them with their things and no one ever finds them."

An image played in the back of Paul’s head. Duncan, practically jumping up and down with joy at the idea getting to go home. He must have known pretty quickly that Richard wasn’t taking him to his dorm. Had he tried to fight? Somehow, Paul didn’t think so, but if he did, it would have been easy enough for Richard to overpower him. That was how all the fights with Duncan had gone. The boy would start struggling and Richard would just pin him and hold him in place until he gave up. He could almost hear Duncan’s voice, tight with barely contained excitement, "You do mean it, right? You’re taking me home? Promise?"

Suddenly, Paul’s stomach heaved and he pushed Richard away from him and ran to the curb, throwing up in the grass before dropped to his knees, panting.

They were dead, every single one of them and it was as much his fault as Richard’s, because he’d never bothered to care. Paul vaguely remembered Richard with a black eye and several other bruises when he’d come back from taking Greg home and he knew, without even knowing the boy that well, that Greg would have fought, like he had from day one. Richard had said that Greg had just been a little scared, but that he’d given him something and everything had been smooth after that.

Andrew, Derick, Toby, William... and Mitch would have joined them in their unmarked graves if Paul hadn’t...

He sicked up again, until there wasn’t anything left and when he finally sat back on his heels, he knew that Richard was right next to him. "Since the police haven’t come to pick me up, yet, I’m going to assume that sweet little Mitchell-dear has kept his cock-sucking mouth shut. For your sake and mine, let’s hope it stays that way."

That tone, he’d never heard that deadly calm from Richard before. There wasn’t any humor, any love, any caring at all. It was cold and hard. He nodded shakily and Richard helped him up, his grip overly firm as he pushed Paul back in the car. Paul put his head on his knees as Richard told the driver to hurry.

"Sit back and relax, Paul. We’ll do our thing and in a month we go home and I’ll take care of your little mess."

God, what was he going to do?