“There was some damage to her knee. The glass cut clear through the patellar tendon. They took her into surgery for repairs twenty minutes ago.”
I take a deep breath in before looking behind her. “Where are the other kids?”
“I picked up Lydia on my way in. They’re all in the surgical waiting room. We were waiting for you.”
I follow her down a corridor and into a small room, Theo still pressed to my side. The moment I step inside, Harry—who’s sitting cuddled up to his grandma—shoots up and barrels toward me, planting his face in my stomach. I wrap my free arm around him and look up to find Lydia taking in the scene, a faint smile on her face, Liam quiet beside her.
“Mom got cut,” Harry volunteers, his head tilted back so he can look at me.
“I heard.”
“There was blood everywhere,” he adds, a shiver running through his little body.
I almost shiver myself at the thought of Marya bleeding, but I force a smile on my face. “We have a lot of blood in our body, did you know that?” He shakes his head, eyes big. “We do, and we can afford to lose a little.”
“Come on, boys. Give Dylan a chance to sit down,” Lydia suggests.
Harry darts back to his grandmother, but Theo stays beside me when I walk up to Liam, who hasn’t moved yet. I hunch down so I’m face-to-face and put a hand on his knee. His worried eyes come up. “Your mom will be fine, Liam.”
“She was crying,” he says softly.
“I bet she was. That probably hurt really bad.”
“Yeah.” The single syllable sounds heavy with the weight of the world.
“Your mom is one of the toughest women I know, kid. She’ll be back to bossing you guys around before you know it.” I take in the slightest twitch of his mouth and get to my feet. “Where’s Damian?” I ask Kerry.
“He had some stuff to tend to in the office.”
Of course, an eleven-year-old boy is still missing.
MARYA
“I’m fine, Bub.”
I stroke my hand over Harry’s head. He crawled into bed beside me, right after the other two boys went with Kerry and Mom to the cafeteria to grab something to eat—apparently it’s already past seven. Harry wouldn’t leave my side.
Neither would Dylan.
I sneak a peek at him. He’s still leaning with his shoulder against the doorpost. The same position he took up after I turned away from his kiss. The question is still in his eyes, but this is not a discussion I’m willing to get into with my child in the room.
I’m torn, I’m tired, and I’m sore, and even though I realize that woman was playing me, the whole scene left me confused.
I was so thrown by her claim, I wasn’t thinking straight. The glasses broke and I immediately reacted, dropping down to clean it up only to drive a shard up my knee. The pain had been instant.
So stupid. One of those moments when you want to go back, even just a fraction of a second, so you can change the outcome. What was worse, I burst into tears right in front of that bitch. That was the ultimate humiliation.
All I could think about on the way to the hospital, and while we were waiting for a doctor, had been Damian’s reaction when he came storming up the stairs. “What the fuck did you do?” he’d fired off at Agent Linden the moment he saw me on the floor. It had struck me as odd he’d immediately assumed she had anything to do with it. Unless...he knew something. That would imply there could be at least some truth to the things she said.
This morning I trusted him enough to give him all of me, and within hours that trust was shaken to the core. Whether there was cause or not, what does that say about me?
“Sweetheart, I met her in—”
I stop him with a raised hand. I can hear regret in his voice and I believe it, but right now I can’t get into this. Not when I’m trying to figure out how in hell I’m going to look after three boys, let alone myself for the next six weeks at least. I’m supposed to keep my leg elevated for a week, then my knee immobilized in a brace for at least another until I see the orthopedic surgeon for my follow-up. No driving for a minimum of six and three months anticipated until I return to normal activities.
It’s impossible. I could probably return to the bookstore in a few weeks, if I was careful, but my cleaning days are over for the foreseeable future.
I’m fucked.
Dylan pushes off the wall when a hot tear rolls from the corner of my eye, soaking into my pillow, just as the door opens and the surgeon walks in followed by one of the nurses.
“Mrs. Berger, how are you feeling?”
“Miz Berger,” I hear Dylan rumble behind the doctor before I have a chance to correct him.
“Of course,” the man says with an apologetic grin.
“Sore, but I guess that’s expected,” I tell him honestly, as Harry lifts his head from my shoulder.
“Can we take Mom home?”
“We’d like to keep her overnight, but you should be able to have your mom home tomorrow. Is that a plan?”
“I guess,” Harry grumbles, but the kind doctor just smiles.
“You’ll have to promise to look after her, though, can you do that?”
“I’m almost nine,” my youngest claims, as if that should answer the question. Never mind his birthday isn’t until next January.
“Well, then, I guess that settles it.” Still smiling he turns to me. “Don’t hesitate taking your medication, you’ll want to keep the pain in check. A physical therapist will be by in the morning to help you on your feet. I’ll pop in during rounds at about eleven, check in on you, and barring any issues, we’ll have you out of here around lunchtime.”
With the doctor gone, the nurse approaches the bed with a small plastic cup.
“Your meds,” she explains, handing me the pills and the cup of water from the night table. “I’ll give you ten more minutes to say goodbye to your visitors, and then I suggest you get some sleep.”
Not long after she leaves, Mom and Kerry are back with the boys. My eyes are already drooping when we’re working out logistics. Dylan will drive the boys and Mom to pick up their stuff for school tomorrow and drop them at Mom’s place.
I hear Kerry’s offer to pick me up from the hospital and Dylan jumping in.
“I’ve got her, you’ll have your hands full with the bookstore.”
I can’t bring up the energy to protest, and the last thing I’m aware of is Dylan’s voice close to my ear.
“Rest up, Sweetheart, we have a lot to talk about tomorrow.”
DYLAN
The boys are subdued in the back seat.
Unfortunately, there’d been no way to avoid the blood still on the kitchen floor and cupboards. I’ll have to come back and clean that up later. I hustled the kids to grab what they need for tonight and tomorrow, and got them, their overnight bags, and backpacks in the Bronco as quickly as possible.
Luna had followed me into the hospital to get an update and a chance to give Damian a report, but then she left soon after discovering he’d gone back to the office. At some point during the afternoon, while we were still waiting for Marya to come out of surgery, Keith Blackfoot, a detective with the Durango PD and a friend, walked in. The keys to my truck I’d left on my desk earlier, dangling from his fingers.
He hadn’t stayed long and asked me to walk him outside.
“That woman has had enough bad luck to last her a couple of lifetimes,” he remarked, and my hair immediately stood on end, expecting another lecture like the one Damian treated me with, but then he surprised me. “Can’t tell you how happy I am to see her luck has finally turned. About time she has a good man at her back.” With that he clapped me on the shoulder and got into the patrol unit waiting for him out front.
The good feeling I was left with lasted until I saw the look in Marya’s eyes when she caught sight of me walking into her hospital room. She wasn’t feeling lucky at all.
“I’ll help you get your stuff inside,” I announce, pulling up to Lydia’s
place.
I grab a few of the boys’ bags from the back and follow Lydia into the small bungalow. “The kids have bunks and their own little setup in the spare bedroom,” she explains when she catches me taking in the small space. It’s like she read my thoughts, because I had been wondering where she’d stick the three boys. “It’s not the first time the boys stay over here, I just thought it might distract them from the fact their mother is in the hospital.”
And, judging by Lydia’s wet eyes, her as well. The boys all in one room and a senior’s community wouldn’t necessarily be the obvious place Jeremy might look for them.
I would’ve offered to keep them for the night, but there’s not a lot of time to take care of things before Marya comes home. Not the least of which is finding Thomas.
I leave Lydia with my number and give her a hug. Harry gives me a quick squeeze with his arms around my waist and Theo—a little more composed now that he knows his mom will be fine—opts for a fist bump. I hold my fist up for Liam as well, who seems to hesitate for a minute, before he bumps it too.
“Catch you guys tomorrow,” I tell them before pulling the door shut behind me.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO her?”
I stop in front of her desk, ignoring the other eyes I’m sure are on me.
“I don’t...I didn’t—”
“Cut the bull, Toni.”
“Barnes...” The warning comes from Jasper. “Damian was there,” he reminds me.
“Actually,” I hear from behind me, and I turn to find my boss leaning against the doorpost of the conference room, not looking at me, but at Toni. “I was in the basement with the kids.”
“You left her alone with Marya?”
Now his eyes are on me, dark and angry. “Yes, I did. My main concern is to find an eleven-year-old kid, who is out there being subjected to God knows what kind of atrocities. If he’s even still alive!” I can count the times I’ve heard him raise his voice before on one hand, so I know he’s good and pissed. So the fuck am I, but he makes a good point. I open my mouth, but I don’t get the chance to tell him that. “Even with half the Durango PD helping us out, we’ve got nothing. It’s like fucking looking for a needle in a haystack,” he continues before turning to Toni. “The last thing I should be worrying about is some fucking trainee agent, with her own goddamn agenda, making it even harder. Do you hear me, Agent Linden?”
Her eyes dart back and forth between Damian and me. “Yes, sir, but I was only—”
“No buts. No excuses. I don’t have time to dig through all the crap you’re about to feed me. I have a young boy to find, and right now you are a distraction to this investigation and a disruption to my team. You’re dismissed until further notice. The rest of you, get in here.” He turns on his heel and disappears into the conference room.
Toni looks like she’s had the wind knocked from her, but I can’t find it in me to care.
“Go ahead,” Jasper suggests, getting up. “I’ll take care of things here.”
I still want to know what it is she said to Marya that had her do a one-eighty from this morning, but Luna grabs my arm.
“Let’s go, big guy, the boss is waiting.”
It’s almost midnight when Damian sends us home to get some rest. I get in my Bronco and am tempted to stop by my folks to check in on Max—I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning—but I know he’s in good hands, and I don’t want to wake the whole household.
Instead I head home, going over the case in my mind.
We still don’t know where the boy is, or who has him. Damian never had a chance to get Liam to talk, and Luna and I didn’t bring back a solid lead from Montrose, but Jasper spent his day pulling files and IP addresses, sorting through chats and comparing groups and nicknames, and came up with something useful after talking to the tech specialist at the Farmington office.
Whoever has the handle, SoccerLord, was in touch through a peer-to-peer connection with both abducted boys, not long before they disappeared. The only problem is this guy’s signal appears to move around a lot. Pings from at least twenty-seven different IP addresses, originating from the library in Farmington to a Starbucks in Hermosa.
A lot of fucking places for us to hit up tomorrow.
Luna pointed out he may have played on some common vulnerabilities in those two boys. Both kids had troubles at home. Seth’s mother had a new boyfriend he wasn’t too happy about, and as we found out from the uncle, the McKinleys are on the verge of a divorce.
It’s not nearly enough, but at least it’s something we can put our teeth into. We know whoever SoccerLord is has a type.
Unfortunately Liam ticks all those criteria as well.
CHAPTER 21
Marya
“Put me down.”
Dylan ignores me as he lifts me from the wheelchair and deposits me in the passenger seat of his truck, before tossing the crutches on the back seat. The nurse who accompanied us to the door titters as she turns back inside with the empty chair. I, however, am not amused.
I’m also cranky. They keep you overnight so you can supposedly ‘rest’ and then poke you awake all night long to make sure you’re comfortable. Clearly, I never got much sleep.
My leg is sore as hell too. The whole damn leg, not just my knee.
I’m not in a good mood. At all.
To make it worse I had to wait half an hour for Dylan to get here after the nurse handed me my discharge papers. Which is another thing to be pissed at Dylan for. I have quite a list going.
“I need some decent coffee,” I announce snippily when he pulls the Bronco out in traffic. “And a Danish,” I add. “Maybe two. Breakfast was a piece of toasted cardboard with a boiled egg that oozed out the moment I cracked the damn shell. How they figure a person can heal without proper food, I have no idea.” Yes, I’m also hangry.
Dylan stays silent through my annoyed rant; his eyes focused on the road ahead, his mouth a straight line. It’s like he doesn’t hear me at all.
With a huff, I cross my arms over my chest and turn my head to look out the side window, mentally scanning the contents of my fridge at home which—if memory serves—holds no more than some wilted lettuce, a few stray string cheese, and a half full jar of salsa. I never had a chance to get groceries this weekend.
He makes a sudden left turn into the drive-thru for Durango Joe’s and stops at the window.
“One large latte with one sugar, one large black, two Danish, six cinnamon rolls, and a bran muffin,” I hear him order.
It’s the first time he’s said anything since his, “Hey,” when he walked into the hospital room.
Truth be told, I may have complained he was late. A little. In my defense, it really sucks to be cooped up in a hospital room, unable to sleep, with a head full of questions and no one to talk to. Add to that a throbbing leg, lukewarm tea, cardboard toast, and liquid egg for breakfast; you can see why I might not have been overly gracious.
“You eat bran muffins?” I’m struggling with my attempt to be civil, and that’s all I can come up with.
“That’s for you.”
“I don’t eat those.”
He throws me a look and for the first time I see his mouth twitch. “You will. Trust me. After surgery, lack of physical activity for the foreseeable future, and eating shit like Danish, you’ll be glad for that bran muffin.”
My mouth falls open in disbelief when I clue in. “Are we seriously discussing my bowel movements?”
“I was in the hospital for a week a while back, and I can tell you that getting backed up is worse than getting shot.”
I clap my hands over my ears. “Good Lord Almighty, that’s too much information.” When he catches me glaring at him, a grin breaks through. “I thought boys grew out of their poop fascination somewhere around fourteen. At least that’s what I’ve been promising myself.”
The glass slides back and a tray with the coffee is passed through the window. I snatch it from Dylan’s hands, identify my cup and take a swig
, scalding my mouth.
“Can you hold on to these?” Dylan holds up two paper bags.
I quickly set the coffees in the cupholders and take them from him, taking a peek inside. When he merges back onto the road, I grab a Danish, ignoring the bran muffin the girl stuffed in the same bag. It’s almost sacrilegious.
“What’s with the cinnamon rolls?” I ask while masticating a hunk of my pastry.
“The boys. After school.”
Okay, that’s sweet. In fact, despite the fact Dylan’s investment in the regularity of my bowel movements is slightly weird, the muffin is a sweet touch too. I could almost forget I’m pissed at him.
I feel a ton better by the time we pull up in my driveway.
“Stay put,” Dylan orders as he slides from the truck. I watch him jog to the front door, unlock and open it wide, before heading back this way.
I don’t even protest this time when he lifts me out of my seat and carries me straight inside, setting me down on the couch, my leg elevated on a pillow. I notice a strong smell of bleach. When he returns with the coffees and the bags, I ask him about it.
“Was someone here? I smell bleach.”
He hands me my coffee and sits down on the coffee table across from me. “Cleaned the kitchen.”
“You cleaned my kitchen?”
He shrugs it off. “Got busy this morning, so I didn’t get to it until right before I had to pick you up. Took a bit of scrubbing by then.”
So the reason he’d been a little late was because he was on my kitchen floor, scrubbing off my blood with bleach, so I could come home to a clean house.
“I’m sorry I was a bitch this morning,” I apologize immediately, but he shrugs that off too.
“Been a trying twenty-four hours.”
I snort. “No shit, Sherlock.”
“We need to talk,” he says seriously, and my mellower mood evaporates as I grab a toss pillow and clutch it to my front like a shield. He doesn’t hesitate and wades right in. “I want to know what she said to you.”
Immediately my snark is back. The best defense against getting hurt is to land the first blow. I don’t hesitate.
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