“Name?”

“Katharina Ellis.” I made a funny face and posed in profile. “Sorry about the nasty picture. It wasn’t exactly my best side.”

No reaction. He was already typing the number on my passport into his computer. My fingers—of their own accord—drummed on the counter in front of me. I plopped my free hand on top of them to stop them and shifted from one leg to the other. I tried some yoga calming techniques the moment I recognized that my rapid breathing was causing my chest to rise and fall too quickly. Breathe in slowly through the nose. Hold breath. Count to three. Let it go through the mouth.

The man paid no notice, scrutinizing his screen instead. Heath had already passed through his booth and was standing, his American passport clutched in a big hand. He waited for me on the other side. People filed past him to head toward baggage claim.

I caught his eye, and he raised brows at me as if to ask what was going on. I shook my head and shrugged. Were it not for the sign prohibiting cell phones while at the passport control station, I might have pulled out mine to text him.

“How long were you out of the country, Ms. Ellis?”

“Just two weeks. For a friend’s wedding.” My voice quavered, and I buried the sound in a loud cough.

The man frowned at his computer screen as he typed some more. Was there a problem? What? What did he see on that tiny screen that made him scowl even more than before? That pulse at my throat started to pound. I swallowed through it and resisted the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. If I did that, I may as well broadcast to the world that I was a potential fugitive. My nervousness couldn’t have been more obvious if I’d tried.

Consoling myself with the thought that it was likely just a new procedure or maybe the system was slow today, I breathed again and continued to chew my thumbnail down to a nub. I watched the officer carefully.

Then he suddenly had a friend standing right next to him. Uh-oh. Since when did Canadians get the full security treatment? We were the cheerful, polite northern neighbors that Yanks liked to poke fun at and we took in stride. No extra security necessary. Except…

This was a new United States of America. Don’t give us your tired, your poor, or your huddled masses. We don’t need them anymore.

“Ms. Ellis, can you come with me?”

Shit was getting real. Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have left the country. But how the hell could I have missed Adam and Mia’s wedding? And how could I have told them I couldn’t come?

And how to explain to Adam, my boss, that I wasn’t even legally working for his company?

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at Heath, and he had no phone in his hand so it must have been Lucas getting back to me.

I froze, a Canadian deer in the US Immigration headlights. “Ms. Ellis? We have a few questions. Come with me to screening, please?”

My passport officer was now standing as if expecting me to bolt. Where the hell would I go?

Heath walked toward us, and my officer turned, holding up a hand. “Come no farther. You’ve made your way through control.”

Heath’s brows crunched, and he held out a hand toward me. “She’s my friend. I want to stay with her.”

“You’re going to have to wait.”

“How long will it take?”

“No idea. Go back to baggage claim and wait there. And don’t come any farther.”

I turned to Heath, our eyes met, and I shook my head. The concern in his eyes was clear—his blond brows scrunched together so tightly they looked like one big unibrow.

“Ms. Ellis? Now, please.”

I jerked back toward the officer. “But my bags.”

“You’ll need those.”

“Can I go get them? Or can he grab them for me?” I gestured to Heath.

“He needs an officer to go with him.” My passport controller pressed a button and another, equally dour, bland man showed up in seconds. It’s like he was cloning himself.

I turned to Heath, holding up a hand to my ear like a phone, and mouthed, Call a lawyer.

“The Canadians?” he replied. He must have meant the Canadian consulate, and a streak of fear shot through me. Shit, no, that would be worse. I shook my head vigorously, eyes wide. No consulate, I mouthed, but he looked puzzled, like he had no clue what I was saying.

Then goon number two grabbed my arm and pulled me toward wherever their torture chamber was located. I wondered how many hours of waterboarding I’d be subjected to before being shipped to Gitmo. Freaking barbarian Yankees.

Thank goodness I was good Kat, instead of bad Kat, and bit my tongue. Bad Kat got into so much trouble due to her big mouth. I was in what some might refer to as a semi-barbaric country that still practiced the death penalty and required no mandated maternity leave. Despite its flaws, however, I did want to continue living in the States. It took my full concentration to ignore the strains of O, Canada which rose in my head, unbidden. The True North strong and free!

They led me to a tiny windowless room with two chairs, a table, and a bench. “Wait here.”

And they locked the door! They fucking locked me in.

Pacing the room only made me dizzy because it was tiny and forced me to walk in minute circles. My mind spun in circles, too. It wouldn’t stop racing—wouldn’t stop wondering, accusing. Blaming myself.

I should have checked before this to make sure that subpoena hadn’t caused a warrant to be issued. Perhaps there had been attempts made to locate me. All this time, I’d been so sure that the Canadian government didn’t know where I was. But after this?

I pulled out my phone and quickly texted Heath.

 

Me: No Canadian consulate.

Heath: Why not? And where the fuck did they take you?

Me: I’m in some little cell.

Heath: You’re in JAIL?

 

I hurried to type a response when my phone buzzed, once more, but from a different source.

 

Jedi Boy: Cranberry, are you on the road yet? I was serious about you needing to get in here.

Me: Not now, Lucas!

 

The door whipped open, and I almost dropped my phone just as Heath’s text popped up.

 

Heath: Hold tight, K. I’m calling lawyers now.

 

“Ms. Ellis? We’ll need to collect your electronic devices.”

“What?” I immediately shoved my phone in my bra. “You’ll have to pry that from my cold dead hands! No one takes my phone.”