Free Controlling Interest by Elizabeth White Page B

fix.
    A buried memory of one of his father’s favorite sermon topics surfaced. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. So far the truth had brought a hurricane of problems.
    And Little Miss Trouble wanted to know about his history.
    â€œI’ve never been arrested, if that’s what you mean,” he said with a sidelong look. “I haven’t done anything worse than most guys my age.”
    â€œWell, there’s a ringing endorsement.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to figure out exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.”
    â€œYou should’ve thought of that before you weaseled your way into my agency.”
    She caught her breath, and he immediately regretted his response. Talk about kicking kittens.
    â€œLook, Natalie, my life is what it is. I haven’t been a perfect Christian guy all my life. I could rake myself over the coals for all the mistakes I’ve made, or I can keep going and try to live the rest of my life for a better purpose. Right? Isn’t that all anybody can do?” He made a face. “Look at the bright side. If Big Dean hadn’t uh . . . accosted me, we might not’ve asked him about Yasmine.”
    Her lips curved. “Yeah, but next time I might not be there to run interference. I thought the guy was going to go after you again. And he’s twice as big as you!”
    â€œSize isn’t everything.” He looked at her sideways. “My frat brothers used to call me Houdini.”
    â€œSomehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Natalie sighed. “Just promise you’ll warn me next time we head into one of your old haunts.”

    At six o’clock Yasmine slumped on a bench in W. C. Handy Park, contemplating the big gray statue. She’d just walked all around the park, reading every plaque. Mr. Handy, it seemed, was quite a famous composer and trumpet player — though she’d never heard of him before today. Maybe the great blues musician’s example of courage and creativity would inspire her to do the brave, perhaps foolhardy, thing she was contemplating.
    All day she had wandered the streets of downtown Memphis, trying to summon the nerve to approach Rafiqah Akbar. Her boarding school chum’s last letter had relayed her excitement at being chosen as a pre-doctoral intern at the University of Memphis Psychological Testing Center. The PTC was only a few blocks away from here.
    Surely Rafiqah, an unmarried young professional, would sympathize with Yasmine and abet her flight. How many nights had they stayed up past curfew, giggling over movie stars?
    Still . . . Rafiqah was traditional in her faith and family loyalties. She might advise Yasmine to return to her fiancé. What if she called Ammi and Abbi and gave her away? Was it worth the risk? If her parents made her return, she could not tell them why she had fled. The things she had learned about Jarrar after Zach’s last letter iced her veins.
    Shivering, she watched a couple of pigeons squabbling over a piece of waxed paper with a streak of mustard down the middle. Her mouth watered. Watching people walk by with those big, soft, yeasty-smelling pretzels had been exquisite torture. But until she found Rafiqah, she must be careful with her American money.
    Unzipping her backpack, she extracted her leather coin purse and peered inside it. She still had the credit card and a few hundred rupees, plus about ten American dollars. Why hadn’t she thought to exchange more in customs? Now it was too late. Banks were closed for the day, even if she’d known where to find one with a foreign exchange department. And tomorrow started the weekend. Clearly her gifts lay in languages, not planning.
    Grunting in frustration, she replaced the purse and heard the soft papery crackle at the bottom of the backpack. She withdrew a sheet of hotel stationery, worn at the creases from being folded and unfolded, over and over, and