by J. Kenner
“One way or another, this is connected to Damien.”
The words hit me like a punch. I realize, of course, that he means Damien’s money. But the bottom line is the same. My children are in danger because of who their father is.
“He’s right,” Quincy says. “And Nikki, I’m telling you right now that you’re going to have to find a way to come to terms with that.”
I nod slowly, numb.
I’m going to have to come to terms with that.
Yes, I am. And so, I think, is Damien.
I nod again, then head for the door, telling them I need to be alone. Except I already am alone. I pass through the living area, so full of people, many of whom were strangers before all of this. I feel shell-shocked, the walking wounded. My daughter is missing. Someone stole her. She’s being punished for who her parents are. For her mother falling for Damien. For Damien choosing me.
I see him in the kitchen. He’s holding a mug with two hands, his head bowed. I want to go to him—I almost turn that way. But I don’t. I stay on my path, moving with purpose to our bedroom. To our massive closet.
There’s a ladder like the kind in libraries, and I climb it, then find the old suitcase I’d shoved up there. I pull it down, then open it up to get to the leather case I’d hidden inside. I shouldn’t have kept the case—I know that. I should have gotten rid of it. I’d meant to so many times, but each time I thought about it, I pulled it back. Because if the case is in the house and I don’t use it, that means I’m strong.
Today, I’m not strong. Today, I’m weak.
Today, I’m going to take what I need.
The case is old, but the leather is polished to a sheen. I unzip it, remembering the horror when Sofia gave it to me. Remembering her taunts. But even then, the instruments were beautiful. Gleaming antique scalpels, lovingly tended, their blades as sharp as possible.
I want this.
This is why I’ve saved them. Because I knew—somehow, I just knew—that the day would come when I’d need them. When I’d have to cut to survive. When that pain would be the only rope that would get me through because Damien—oh, dear God—because Damien would be lost, too.
Slowly, I choose one of the scalpels. I lift it out from the indention into which it fits. I feel the comforting weight in my hand and I extend my arm.
Then reason grabs me. Not my arm. They’ll see.
I stand up, then put the case on the island that takes up the middle of my closet. My fingers fumble for the button of my jeans, and I start to shimmy out of them. The denim is tight around my thighs, and I’m pushing the material down when I see my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I’m looking up, meeting my own eyes. And for a moment, I just stare.
Then I gasp, clamping my hand over my mouth before the gasp turns into a yell.
No.
No, no, no.
I don’t have to do this.
I have the strength to fight this. Damien may be lost with me right now, but he’s given me enough strength over the years. I’m not surrendering. I’m not doing this.
Wildly, I tug the jeans back up, then fasten them. I put the scalpel back in the case, and I’m about to shove the case into the little suitcase when my phone rings, so I toss the case into my underwear drawer, then pull my phone out from the pocket of my jeans, where it’s been all day, a lifeline to Anne.
I race out of the closet and run through the room and into the hall. I’m breathless when I burst into the main living area just as the phone shrieks out a second ring. I look around for Damien, but I don’t see him anywhere.
“The phone,” I say stupidly as Ryan holds up his hand, not letting me answer just yet. He signals to his team—at all the men and women who will be monitoring this call. Tracing it if they can. My phone. Damien’s phone. The house phone. Every phone held by every staff member—Gregory, the cleaning staff, the guards, the grounds folk. Every one of their calls routed through the control center, too.
“Ryan...” My finger hovers, desperate to answer. I don’t recognize the number, but today that doesn’t matter. I have to answer. I have to know. “Ryan. Please.”
Denise—blonde and efficient—raises a hand in signal.
“Go,” Ryan tells me, and I answer the call. “Hello? Hello?”
“Nikki?”
It’s Bree. Her voice frantic. Hysterical.
“Bree?” I whisper as my knees go out.
The world turns gray and I start to fall. And for the first time in a long time, it isn’t Damien who’s there to catch me.
20
“I should have gone with them. Dammit, why the fuck didn’t I insist on going with them?”
I’m pacing the first floor of the house, my phone out so that I can watch the dot that represents Damien move across the map. They’re heading to Mulholland, which I find ironic considering where Damien found me when all of this started.
“Less chance the driver got picked up on a security camera,” Dallas explained, before he, Quincy, Damien, and Ryan set out, tracking the burner phone that Bree’s oh-so-polite kidnapper had left with her.
“You did insist,” Jamie reminds me. “But there was no way that was happening, and we both know it.”
“Guess not,” I say resentfully. “I’m a grown woman. I’m Bree’s employer and her friend, and I’m the mother of a child who’s still missing.” The pitch of my voice is rising with my hysteria, and I’m having a hell of a time dialing it back. I’m running on fumes. Saturday night, neither Damien nor I got much sleep. I don’t even remember when Sunday turned into Monday, and the sleep I did have was neither long nor restful.
“They’re afraid it’s a trap,” Lyle says. “Damien’s protecting you. They all are.”
I want to tell him that’s bullshit. But Lyle’s one of the nicest guys I know, and so I keep my mouth shut and just nod instead, then brush my fingers over my lips as I remember the brush of Damien’s goodbye kiss.
Dangerous, I think, and fight back a fresh wave of fear. Surely picking up Bree won’t turn out to be dangerous. Surely, there won’t be some tragedy that makes this kiss the last.
Riley’s downstairs as well, though he’s been standing quietly in the open doorway, looking out at the hills of Malibu that surround our property. His phone rings, the sharp sound combined with my lingering fear making me jump.
“Go ahead,” he says into his phone, as I look at mine and see that the Damien dot has stopped somewhere on Mulholland near Sepulveda. I hold my breath, watching Riley, who talks in grunts and single syllables. Then he ends the call, looks at me, and says, “They got Bree. She’s unharmed.”
Jamie grabs my arm, and I go weak with relief, mixed together with my continuing fear for my daughter.
“This is good,” Riley says, coming to stand in front of me. “Nikki, look at me.”
I do as he orders. “This means we’re dealing with someone who’s not worried about a freed hostage leading us back to him.”
I nod. That makes sense.
“And it also means that the likelihood we’re dealing with someone who snatched them for white trafficking has gone down as well.”
“Unless they only traffic children,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, as if voicing the fear will make it come true.
“Possible, but doubtful.”
I look up at him, trying to decide if he means it, or if he’s just trying to make me feel better.
“If that were the case, they’d most likely just kill Bree. Not set her free with a phone.”
I nod agreement, because I already know this most likely isn’t a trafficking situation. A belief that gives me some small amount of comfort.
From the moment we knew about the kidnapping, Ryan’s team—and then later Dallas’s people—have been watching the airports and bus stations and docks. Even the border into Mexico. But with the grab seeming to be so specific—and since the victim is Damien Stark’s daughter—the assumption from the beginning was a kidnap for ransom.
Now, with Bree’s release, that seems even more likely.
The house phone rings from where it sits on a pedestal-style table next to the couch in the first floor living area. I glance at it, then hurry that direction. It’s a replica of an old-fashioned phone, with a faux rotary dial and the kind of handset that appears to sit on a claw that extends up from the base.
“Wait,” Riley says, and I nod, my heart pounding. This is it. This will be the ransom demand.
Riley taps his earpiece. “I need you locked on now, dammit.” Then he nods at me, and I rush to answer.
“Hello?”
“Um, hi. This is Rory Claymore. Can I speak to Bree Bernstein, please?”
I frown, meeting Riley’s gaze. He motions for me to continue talking. “Rory, it’s Nikki Stark.”
“Oh, wow. Mrs. Stark. Sorry. I didn’t realize you’d answer. Bree gave me this number awhile back. She said her cell phone had crappy service in the kids’ playroom.”
I nod, numb. He’s right about that.
“How can—why are you calling?”
There’s a pause, and when he returns to the line, his confusion is clear. “Like I said. I’m trying to reach Bree.”
I glance to Riley, who whispers instructions, so soft I’m practically reading his lips. Beside me, Jamie clutches my arm so tight I wince. “I’m sorry, Rory. She’s not here.”
“Oh.” He sounds confused. “Listen, I’m kinda worried about her. We were supposed to watch Casablanca today, then go out after. I bought the tickets like a week ago. But she’s not here, and I keep calling her cell, and she’s not answering.”
I close my eyes, adrenalin flowing out of me. This has nothing to do with the abduction. And all I want to do is hang up.
Instead, I do what Riley instructs. “She’s not here,” I say. “I’m not sure where she is. She has the day off.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Maybe she’s lost. If she calls, what theater are you at?”
“The Moviehouse,” he says. “That new indie theater on Fairfax. They’re doing retro movies all this week. Mrs. Stark, I’m kinda worried. This isn’t like her.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I’ll have her call you the minute I see her.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
I end the call, then look at Riley, who holds up a finger, then nods in response to something someone has said in his ear. “He’s there. We have eyes on. He’s pacing in front of the theater. Looking at his watch. Expression between worried and pissed.”
“What? How?”
“Your husband employs talented people. And there are a lot of security cameras in this city, some of them on a government grid, some of them owned by private business owners. Almost all of them sending a wireless signal.”
I swallow and nod, certain that whatever these people have done to get an image of Rory breaks about a dozen laws. And I really don’t care.
“You okay?” Jamie asks from beside me.
I nod. I’d thought the call was news, and now that it’s turned out to be nothing, I’m feeling hollow.
“What is it?” Riley’s asking the question to Jamie, and when I look at her face, I can see why. Her brow is furrowed, and she’s clearly considering something.
“He called her cell,” Jamie says. “That got me thinking. The kidnapper destroyed her cell phone, right?”
I nod.
“Why give her another one?” She looks between me and Riley, then focuses on Lyle, who’s stepped closer. “It’s weird, right? Take her cell, but then hand her one. Why?”
Riley starts to answer, but I speak first. “Less chance the press will get involved,” I say. “Or the police.”
Jamie’s brow furrows, and she shakes her head a fraction, clearly not following.
“If they just dump her, she’ll knock on a door,” I say. “That means explanations. Maybe she’ll call the police. Or even if she doesn’t, what if someone recognizes her as Damien Stark’s nanny? Could end up being gossip. They don’t want the press on this anymore than we do.”
Jamie nods. “Okay. I get that.”
I almost wish she didn’t, because now there’s just silence. Silence, and the interminable wait for the men to return with Bree.
I pace the entryway a few more times, and when I can’t stand that anymore, I go outside and walk back and forth in front of the house, ending up at the flower garden on the north edge. It’s a small plot, but well-tended, filled with colorful flowers that surround a splash of yellow daisies in the middle.
I drop to my knees, then reach out and gently brush the yellow petals. Ashley. The flowers were a sympathy gift from Jamie and Ryan after my miscarriage, when I lost the baby that Damien and I had named Ashley, in honor of my sister. It had been Damien’s idea to plant the flowers outside where they could thrive in the sunlight, and where we could come sit on the little stone bench and know our baby was at peace.
“Watch over your sister,” I whisper, as tears cling to my lashes. “Please, please, let her be safe.”
I don’t know how long I stay there on my knees, but I don’t stand until I hear Jamie calling for me.
“They’re here,” she says, as I run toward her, watching the black Range Rover pull in past the guard station, then come to a stop in front of the house. Damien’s driving, and he kills the engine, then both he and Ryan get out.
The windows are tinted, so I can’t see into the back, but a moment later, the doors open and Ryan helps Bree down from the rear passenger seat. Quincy and Dallas get out on the other side, and I run forward, then envelop Bree in a hug, which she enthusiastically returns.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “It’s not.”
“I didn’t want to leave her.” Her face is splotchy, and I can tell that she’s been crying. Now the tears start up again. “He made me leave her.”
“I know. I know,” I say, looking at Damien as I pull her close. He. Does that mean she’s certain? Does that mean she saw their abductor clearly?
As if he’s read my mind, Damien shakes his head, then comes up beside us. I feel the comforting pressure of his hand sliding over my back as he guides me into the house while Ryan steers Bree through the door in front of us.
“What did she tell you about Anne?” I ask Damien, my voice low. “She’s safe? Are they feeding her? Does she know where she was? Can she describe the kidnapper? Does she know when he’s going to ask for ransom?”
“As far as she knows, Anne is fine. The rest we’ll talk about upstairs.” He speaks in a low voice, his tone gentle. But his gaze on Bree’s back is hard and cold. And I’m suddenly afraid of what I’m going to hear.
We sit in the living area, Ryan’s team still gathered around the conference table as the group that retrieved Bree, plus me, Jamie, Lyle, and Riley, sit on the plush furniture. I stand, occasionally sitting on the armrest of Damien’s chair, where he sits straight, like an emperor on a throne.
“Please,” Bree says from where she is curled up on the center of the couch, her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around them. “Can I see Lara before I have to go through it all again?”
“Of course,” I say, while Damien says, “Later,” at exactly the same time.
“Just a few questions first,” Quincy says. “We don’t want you to lose any details that might help Anne.”
“But we talked in the car.”
“We need to go over it again,” Quincy says firmly. Bree nods, her eyes darting to mine. I smile encouragement, willing her to remember something helpful.
“Tell us again what happened,” Dallas says.
Bree nods, then tells the story I already know, adding very little to what Ryan extrapolated from the security cameras.
“But you have no idea who grabbed you?” Ryan presses.
She shakes her head. “He wore pantyhose over his face. And makeup. Like really red lipstick and that black eye stuf
f that football players use. And there were red streaks all over his face. I guess it was supposed to make him even more unrecognizable than just the hose. Oh,” she adds, “the ball cap was from Universal Studios, but I guess that’s easy enough to get around here.”
The men continue their questions, with Ryan and Dallas speaking in calm, soothing tones, and Damien’s questions coming harder. Crisper. So much so that I reach over to rest my hand on his wrist. I understand how tense he is, but that can’t possibly be helping Bree, who’s already endured so much.
Through the questioning, we learn that the kidnapper is probably a male. That he never spoke directly. Everything he said to her was pre-recorded and played back with some sort of voice altering filter.
She and Anne were kept together in a room in what she thinks is a house on a large lot. She heard no neighbors, no traffic. And she believes it was a basement, since there were no windows. If that’s so, it could narrow things down, as basements aren’t common in Southern California. She thinks it was less than an hour from where they were snatched, but she wouldn’t swear to it.
“Could be a wine cellar,” Riley suggests.
“Or misdirection,” Damien says, though I don’t understand what he means.
The room had toys for Anne and a single mattress on the floor. A bathroom was attached, but had no mirror and no door. She thinks a camera was mounted in the ceiling light fixture but isn’t certain.
They got food at regular intervals, and always had enough bottled water. He also made Anne drink something that made her drowsy. “I don’t think was anything bad, though. And she seemed less scared.”
When pressed, she added that the guy had narrow hips and a flat ass, but a broad chest and a large belly. And he favored one leg.
“Could be a disguise,” Quincy says. “But everything helps.”
As soon as they were snatched, he made Bree cover her face with a sewn-closed ski mask, then used duct tape to tie her hands. He blindfolded Anne and told her it was a game, but he didn’t tie her hands as far as Bree knows.
“Thank you, Bree,” Dallas says as they wrap up. “I know how hard all this is.”