She walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing in Knox's arms with too many emotions and not enough words.
Knox is silent beside me. His jaw is tight, his body tense with something that might be jealousy or might be calculation.
"Montenegro," he says flatly.
"I know."
"He saved you."
"I know."
"Why?"
I don't have an answer. Or rather, I have several answers, and none of them are ones Knox wants to hear.
"I don't know," I lie. "Maybe he just believes in justice."
Knox's expression says he doesn't buy that for a second. But before he can press further, another figure approaches.
Dr. Moreau.
She looks smaller up close than she did on the witness stand—a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and smile lines that suggest she's spent her career trying to make terrible situatio
