“This is the worst part,” Jade admits quietly, her voice sounding unusually small in the vast room. She stares out at the distant mountains, her knees hugged tight against her chest. “The waiting. The men think the hard part is slipping through the mud with a gun in their hand, but it isn’t.”
I nod, suck in a deep breath.
“The hard part is sitting in a clean, quiet room, staring at a clock,” she says. “Knowing that your whole life could be destroyed miles and miles away… and you wouldn't even feel the tremor until someone walks through that door. Or doesn’t.”
I look sideways at her, struck by the raw honesty in her profile. In the dim blue light filtering through the glass, Jade looks less like the untouchable, sharp-tongued queen of the clubhouse and more like a woman carrying the heav
