IT FEELS WEIRD TO be back at work after everything that's happened. Wrong, even. Still, I have to pay my rent somehow. As I pull into the parking lot of the FBI facilities, my jaw drops.

"Damn, dude, what the heck happened to your car?" I hear Rafael say as I get out of my Camry, the keys jangling as I shove them into my pocket.

Curiosity piqued, I wander over to the crowd of men surrounding one of the guys' black pickup truck. It's Richard's, the windshield smashed in, the sides dented and the tires slashed. Just the sight of it makes me want to cringe.

"Did you cheat on your girlfriend or something?" Rafael says to Richard. The accusation makes me wince a little at how it hits too close to home before I realize he's referring to the cliched and overplayed country song, Before He Cheats. "Why would someone do this to your car?"

Richard's brown eyes narrow as he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. "I don't know, Santos, but when I get my hands on them, they're not going to like the results."

"Do you think this could be work-related?" I wonder aloud. This is an inauspicious start to an already bad day. The smell of gasoline perfumes the air, malodourous, as pervasive as the sound of rumours spreading around the FBI agents in training. "Is there at least a note on the windshield... or anything?"

As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize how stupid they sound. Of course, there's no note on the windshield. The windshield is a pile of broken glass strewn around the parking lot. If there's a note, somebody would have seen it by now.

"Yeah." Garrett, one of the other guys in our class, asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He's all brawn and no brains, and having him agree with me doesn't make me feel any better. "Where's the note?"

Just then, a piece of paper flutters to the ground, a breeze whipping it toward Richard. He snatches it up and reads it quickly, then just as quickly, he crumples it into a crinkled ball. "Crap."

All eyes, if they weren't already fixed on the scene, immediately dart toward him. A chorus of questions rises up around the group crowding around the damaged truck. "What did it say? Who did it? Was it really your girlfriend?"

Richard stretches out both arms as if to say, back up. Then he points at me and Rafael. "Can you two come here? Everyone else, go do your jobs or something."

The others disperse into the building; the novelty has worn off and Richard's charisma has rubbed off on them. I'm surprised by his singling us out. It isn't as if we're particularly close buddies, so this must have something to do with the note. Still, I sidle over, taking my hands out of my pocket. Richard Chen stands at six-foot-three, an intimidating four inches taller than me, and a good deal bulkier, but not one of those guys like Garrett who is just a meathead.

"What's this about?" Rafael says, toeing at the broken glass with his scuffed sneakers. The man has some kind of death wish, I swear. Mingling with the ashes of several cigarette butts, the shards of glass shine like crystal in the sun.

"The note was from the Cavalli's. Somehow, I blew my cover and they know who I am," Richard explains as he shrugs his leather jacket off his shoulders. He was working undercover as a drug supplier among the gang. I'm surprised he's still alive. "I need someone to replace me. One of you."

"Why one of us?" I say. My second look-like-an-idiot statement of the day, even if I can blame it on strung-out nerves from Destiny's betrayal piled on top of all the other things going on in my life. "I mean, wait, don't answer that."

Rafael and I were assigned to work the Cavalli's case a few weeks back when the restaurant was raided for suspicion of drug trafficking. Was that only a few weeks ago? Looking back, it feels like a lifetime, so much has happened.

Richard laughs; it's a dry, cynical noise. "So, which one of you can take over for me?"

In our heads, both Rafael and I are pointing fingers at each other. I just spit out his name faster. "Rafael, I'm sure you'd love to do it, wouldn't you buddy?"

"No, no. This is really your case, I'm just assisting on it. Your time to shine, amigos." He even claps me on the back.

Richard looks between the two of us in tired exasperation. "Santos, you're on it, and Black, you can be back-up."

Then he walks into the building with the rest of the guys, leaving the two of us to go on a mission to what will most likely be our deaths.

DEAR HEAVENLY FATHER, HELP me...

My pen falters over the page, leaving a black streak of meaninglessness on the yellow legal pad. Usually, I journal my prayers when I'm at home because it keeps my mind from wandering off. Today I need it more than ever. I got my phone back from Antonio, mercifully free of toilet water, and I had three missed calls from Lucas... but nothing from my mother. The silence from her end hurts. I know walking out on her the way I did wasn't the right thing to do, but it doesn't make the wall between us any less painful.

I start again, the words flowing more easily this time as I write them in a mixture of Chinese (Mandarin pinyin) and French. I didn't trust anyone not to look at my things and I didn't want them to root through my trash, God forbid, and find my prayers.

Lord of the universe, You alone are God. You have overcome the world and everything in it. You are the one to whom I process my allegiance. Without You, I have nothing. Without You, I am nothing more than a lost sinner. You are my Father, my Saviour, my Lord and Master. Train my hands to do Your work, and guide my feet to walk on Your paths. Let me be Your daughter and Your servant.

Help me to love and forgive Lucas despite all the pain that he has caused me. Let me not be bitter toward him or have a resentful spirit. Please cast out these dark thoughts in my heart and replace them with thoughts of Your goodness, mercy, and the grace that You have granted to me undeservingly.

Let me not try to wrest anything from Your hands. Let me not believe that You owe me anything when if I received what I deserved, I would be wretched indeed. God, please let this turn out as You have ordained and do not let me try to create anything that is not Your will. God, please protect me, keep me under the shadow of Your wings.

Guide me and keep me from sin and harm today, Father. In Jesus's Name, I pray, Amen.

I set down the pen and tuck the legal pad into the drawer of my desk. It's in the Cavallis' guestroom, which I guess I've commandeered now. This room is the same one that I slept in last time and the layout is somewhat comforting to me, reminding me of a very prestigious hotel. A four-poster canopy bed, the princess bed that I dreamed of when I was a child, sits in the centre of the room. In one corner lies an armoire; in the opposite corner, a window with long, billowing drapes in a light pink colour. My desk is across from the bed, a pretty white vanity that's been repurposed, though a gilt-framed oval mirror still reflects my face back at me and makes me feel as though I'm in Snow White. The room feels like it was taken straight from the pages of a fairytale

If only this wasn't beginning to feel like a nightmare, and my prince wasn't actually the villain...

A knock startles me from my thoughts, thankfully, and I jump up, dusting off the knees of my jeans. "Come in!"

Antonio strides in, no questions asked, no apologies made. He's in more causal wear than the dinner party last night... which turned into a ball... which turned into me falling asleep on his shoulder. I hope I didn't drool on him... The thought makes a blush rise to my cheeks. "Good morning, Christina. What were you writing?"

I realize I never closed the desk drawer, the legal pad out for anyone to see. If I close it now, he'll think I'm hiding something. And if he thinks I'm hiding something, well, it probably won't turn out well for me. The thought of Daniel praying three times a day flutters through my mind, praying fervently even when it was outlawed. If he can do that, how can I lie now? "I was writing down my prayers."

Something flashes across Antonio's face, but as always, his gaze is an impassive wall of ice to me, blank as far as the eye can see. "I've never met someone who wrote down their prayers before."

"But you have met people who prayed before?" I tease, sliding the drawer shut.

"Of course, my mother always prayed the rosary," he says calmly before launching into a recitation as though the rosary beads are in his hands right now. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

I smile, amused by his prayer. "A good Catholic schoolboy, I see. Your mother sounds like a fascinating woman."

"She was." Any hint of amusement falls from his face. Oh. "Anyways, I came to ask you to come to a meeting with me today after breakfast."

The tone of his voice suggests it's less of an invitation and more of a summoning. I survey myself in the mirror, glancing at my jeans and red sweater. "Should I be wearing anything special for that?"

"Not really." Then, as if a lightbulb has just gone off in his head, he straightens up, his grey eyes meeting mine with a twinkle in them that piques my curiosity. "Meet me after breakfast. I have something to give you."