by Irene Hannon
“I’ve been colder.”
“If you put in time in the Middle East—and I’m assuming you did—that goes without saying. I wanted to let you know I talked to Harris today.”
Lance zeroed in on a guy ambling down the street. This wasn’t a strolling kind of neighborhood—especially in the winter. Maybe that anonymous tip they’d received was going to pay off.
He leaned sideways to keep the guy in view. “What’s your take?”
“Same as the victim’s sister. I think he’s lonely and trolling for dates. He seemed freaked by a visit from the FBI and immediately started explaining what happened with his ex-wife. According to him, she requested the protection order after he started parking across the street from the house so he could get a glimpse of his kids, who he misses. She claimed his presence was harassment. Sounds to me like he got a raw deal.”
“Divorces can be nasty.” The guy stopped across the street from the girlfriend’s apartment and flicked a lighter.
“You got that right. Once I told him my visit had nothing to do with his ex, he calmed down. He admitted he was disappointed by Christy’s rebuff but appears to have accepted her explanation that she’s met someone else.”
Lance straightened up.
Had she?
If so, why wasn’t the guy on her list?
“Any idea who that might be?” Mark prompted when the silence lengthened.
“No. I’m thinking it was just an excuse.” He hoped.
“You might want to double-check with her.”
“Yeah.” In the second floor of the apartment building, a shade was lowered. Raised. Lowered halfway.
The guy crossed the street toward the front door.
Bingo.
“I need to go. I think we’re about to see some action here.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
Lance kept his eye on the guy as he called in reinforcements and pulled out his Glock. At least this cold surveillance gig would be short-lived—and hopefully the last one for this case. If all went well, they might wrap it up tonight.
Too bad they weren’t making similar headway with the kidnapper.
Instead, they were stuck in a holding pattern, waiting for his next directive—and the guy didn’t seem to be in any hurry to issue it.
Given the meager clues they’d uncovered, however, the kidnapper’s lackadaisical pace worked to their advantage in some ways. The longer this dragged on, the more time they had to dig up some leads.
One day soon, however, the situation would escalate. The kidnapper would either tire of his game or they’d uncover a worthwhile clue.
Far better for that escalation to happen on the FBI’s time frame than the kidnapper’s.
But until they got a break, this guy was in charge—like it or not.
Not.
The pain medication was wearing off.
Mevlida groaned as she shifted in bed and peered at the illuminated clock on her nightstand. Three in the morning. Eight hours since Neven had given her those blue pills after her fall.
And she needed more.
But he kept all medicine in his room, and waking him in the middle of the night could be risky.
Better to lie here awhile and see if she could fall back to sleep without the pills.
Fifteen minutes later, however, the pain was worse—and intensifying.
What should she do?
Mevlida kneaded the edge of the blanket with her fingers. He’d been so kind last night, like in the early days two years ago, after that nice therapist at the rehab center had helped her find him. Perhaps his good humor had survived the night.
Raising herself carefully on one elbow, she eased her feet over the side of the bed, positioned her walker, and struggled to her feet.
For a full minute she stood motionless, waiting for the pain in her ribs to recede before she began her slow shuffle across the small room and down the hall.
Outside his door, she wiped her damp palms down the soft flannel of her nightdress. Dabbed a tissue at the beads of sweat above her upper lip. Clutched the walker.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe she should try to get through the night without the pain medicine.
All at once, a cough rumbled deep in her chest. She tried to suppress it, but it refused to be contained—and with each hack, searing pain sliced through her midsection.
Moisture gathered in her eyes, and a tear spilled out. Waiting until morning was impossible. She needed the pills now.
Pulse fluttering, she knocked lightly on Neven’s door.
No response.
Was he ignoring her—or sound asleep? He’d been working a lot of extra hours, helping to fill in for the injured man. He might just be very tired.
She knocked harder—and the door clicked, opening an inch.
Her jaw went slack as she stared at the slight gap. Neven never left his room unlocked. Even when he went to get a drink or use the bathroom, he locked the door. From her first day here, he’d made it clear she was never to set foot into his space. Nor had he given her any opportunity to do so, since he kept the key on a chain around his neck.
So why was the door unlocked tonight?
With a tentative push, she opened it a few more inches and peeked inside.
Neven wasn’t there.
In fact, the bed hadn’t been slept in.
Mevlida leaned on the walker, taking shallow breaths as her respiration slowed. Where could the boy have gone? Sometimes he stayed out late on weekends but never past one or two.
His absence could be a blessing, though. If he wasn’t here, she might be able to get her pills without disturbing him.
But . . . what if he came home and caught her in his room?
A parade of possible consequences passed through her mind—none of them pleasant—and a sudden, cold sweat left her shivering in the chilly apartment.
But spending the rest of the night in pain was even less palatable.
She’d have to take her chances, move quickly, and hope wherever he was, he’d stay there for a few more minutes.
Pushing the door wide, she let her eyes adjust as the dim light from the hall spilled inside, then scanned the room. Her gaze skittered past the deer rifle propped against the wall. The one he used to hunt on the property some acquaintance owned out in the country. There was a chest of drawers on her immediate left . . . a neatly made bed . . . a nightstand . . . a desk in the far corner, in shadows.
The desk might be the most likely spot for the pills.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she shuffled toward it.
Once there, she rested a hand on top as she flipped on the floor lamp beside it. Much better. Now she could see the . . .
She gasped.
Clutched her chest.
A dead mouse was pinned to the corkboard above the desk, beside a photo of an ice-skater.
Dead mice she was used to, thanks to Neven’s cruel games. But this one, hanging next to the picture of that pretty girl, felt . . . sinister.
Clutching the walker, she dropped her gaze to the empty cage on the floor . . . the water bucket . . . and another dead mouse duct-taped to a board, its paws and ears missing.
Her stomach churned.
Disposing of the nuisance rodents that were far too plentiful in the apartment was one thing.
Torturing the little creatures was another.
Out of the murky waters of her past, a memory from a summer’s day in the old country bobbed to the surface. They’d all gathered for Friday lunch after noon prayer, as usual, and Neven had wandered out to the yard to play. When she’d gone to summon him for the meal, she’d found him squatting beside a quivering baby rabbit he’d cornered in her backyard, poking at its belly with a pointed stick.
At her harsh rebuke, he’d let the animal scurry away and turned to her with an innocent expression. “I was just playing with it, Baka.”
Tormenting a helpless animal hadn’t seemed like play to her, but he’d been onl
y . . . what? Six, seven. Maybe eight. No more than a small child. Too young to know better, perhaps.
At least that’s what she’d told herself.
But now . . .
Mevlida looked from the mutilated dead mouse to the one hanging on the bulletin board. All these years, she’d attributed his callous behavior to the trauma he’d endured. But . . . had he been prone to meanness long before that?
As she examined the photo of the skater again, a chill ran through her.
Gripping the walker, she surveyed the items on the desk. A pistol was front and center. Beside it was a photo of a group of young people, Neven among them. Schoolmates, perhaps? The girl in the picture on the bulletin board was in it too.
She picked up the chain with the Arch on the end. It was for keys—yet it held none. And that envelope . . . why was it in plastic? She couldn’t read the name, but the letters looked the same as the signature in the signed picture.
What did it all mean?
What was her grandson up to?
She had no answers.
But she knew one thing . . . it wasn’t good. She could feel it in her bones, that same ominous sense of foreboding she’d experienced on that terrible day in the village, when the family holiday they’d anticipated with such joy had turned to tragedy.
The day reports of soldiers in the streets had reached them.
The day Mihad had disappeared.
The day Daris and Sonja had died.
The blackest day of her life.
Was she once again to be plunged into darkness?
A feeling of panic, of overwhelming helplessness, swept over her, just as it had on the day her perfect world had crumbled. Her hands began to shake. Shudders coursed through her body. The acrid taste of fear soured on her tongue.
Choking back a sob, she switched off the lamp, maneuvered her walker to face the door, and moved toward the light in the hall as fast as she could, ignoring the pain caused by her labored breathing.
Once in the hall, she shut the door tight. Neven must never discover she’d been in his room. Who knew what he would do?
Who knew what he still might do?
For years, she’d made excuses for him. Believed he was good at heart. But she could ignore the truth no longer. There was darkness in that boy. She might deserve his wrath, but why had he targeted that pretty young woman in the photo?
A car backfired in the parking lot, like Neven’s often did, and she picked up her pace. He couldn’t find her hovering in the hall.
Once back in her room, she closed the door and lowered herself to the bed, trembling in the darkness.
Waiting.
A few minutes later, she heard his key in the lock. The front door opened. Clicked shut.
She didn’t hear his tread in the hall. She never did. The boy had learned to move with stealth. But though her eyes were closed, she sensed when he opened her door to look in. Knew, also, the instant he realized his door was unlocked—because he came back to her room. Crossed to her bed. Stood over her.
A faint aroma of onions wafted her way. He must have stopped at some fast-food place on his way home.
She tried to keep her respiration steady under his scrutiny, despite the pain. In. Out. In. Out. Keep. Breathing.
After several eternal seconds, he retreated.
The door clicked softly shut.
She exhaled and opened her eyes—to find him standing above her.
Panic clawed at her throat.
“So you’re awake.”
Don’t admit anything! Pretend you were asleep!
She groaned and blinked, giving him a muddled look. “I hurt.”
He leaned closer, resting a hand on either side of her. “Have you gotten out of bed at all?”
“No. I . . . hurt.”
He studied her in the dim light while her heart hammered. At last he stood. “I’ll get you some more pills.”
She lay quivering while she waited for him to return, sheet bunched in her fingers. When he reappeared, she took the pills he offered, holding the glass with both hands as she washed them down.
“Go back to sleep now.” He left her, clicking the door shut behind him.
She stared at the dark ceiling and released a quivering breath.
Sleep?
There would be no more rest for her this night.
She had too much to think about. To process. To plan.
Neven was family. The only family she had left. And family had been everything in the old country. They had stood by one another, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, loyal and true.
But where did loyalty end? How many sins should love overlook—and forgive? When did a stranger’s welfare take precedence over that of a family member?
Such difficult questions.
Another shiver passed through her, and Mevlida pulled the covers higher under her chin. Neven meant that girl harm, she was certain of it. But how much harm? Was he playing upsetting but harmless pranks on her, as he did here? Or was he planning to hurt her—like he’d hurt that defenseless rabbit so many years ago?
She didn’t want to believe that could be true.
But ignoring reality didn’t make it go away, as she’d learned to her deep regret. In fact, closing your eyes to the truth could be deadly. You had to be ready for what life sent your way. Prepared to take action.
This time, she would be.
Maybe she couldn’t bring back the people she’d loved and lost, but perhaps she could find a way to warn that girl to be careful.
Neven must never know of her disloyalty, though. If he found out, her life would become even more intolerable.
The wind howled outside her window, rattling the glass, and she burrowed deeper under the covers, into the warmth.
But the icy chill in her heart remained.
8
Christy!”
Guilt tugging at her conscience, Christy turned as Bob waved at her from the far side of the rec center lobby. She should have sought him out, not the other way around. She owed the man an apology for adding more hassle to his already stressful life. According to Lance, he’d been freaked to find an FBI agent at his door. Who wouldn’t be?
As for Lance’s query about the met-a-new-guy excuse she’d given Bob—thank goodness their Saturday conversation had been by phone. Despite her explanation that it had been nothing more than a kind brush-off, her blush would have tipped him off that the excuse actually had legs . . . and they were attached to him.
Tightening her grip on the skates in one hand and the bulging satchel of summer youth program proposals in the other, she summoned up a smile as Bob approached. “Hi. I see you’re working late too.”
“Par for the course. Besides, there’s not much to go home to these days.”
The perfect opening.
She looked around. No one was in the lobby except a maintenance guy, and he was busy mopping, buds plugged into his ears. Still, she lowered her voice. “About that . . . I didn’t mean to cause you any aggravation.”
He waved her apology aside. “No sweat . . . once I realized my ex hadn’t sicced the feds on me. But I did want to say I’m sorry someone’s hassling you.”
So that’s the excuse Lance’s colleague had used for the visit.
It was true too—even if hassle didn’t come close to describing the terror and confusion that had kept her awake more nights than she could count since the kidnapper’s first letter.
Lifting one shoulder, she managed the facsimile of a smile. “I’ll get through it—but I appreciate your understanding.”
“Despite what Diane tells anyone who will listen, I do have a few empathetic bones in my body.” His features tightened for a moment, then he dipped his head toward her skates. “Heading to the rink?”
“Yes. Skating is about the only thing that feels normal and predictable these days.”
“Normal and predictable are good. Better than I realized until recently.”
“You’ll get there again.”
“Maybe. But it will be a different normal.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“Anyway, I won’t hold you up.” He took a step back. “I just wanted to apologize for bugging you about a date when you had all that other stuff going on.”
“I was flattered by your interest.” True enough—even if the interest wasn’t reciprocated.
“Thanks.” With a lift of his hand, he started to walk away—then paused and turned back. “And I’m happy you met someone new—even if it killed my chances.” After offering her a crooked grin, he strolled down the hall.
She exhaled, some of her tension evaporating. At least he was being a good sport about her rejection and the awkward visit from the FBI. And with her conscience appeased, she’d be able to give her full attention to tonight’s student. She might even hang around afterward and lose herself for a few minutes in the motion and the music.
Two hours later, agenda accomplished, she arrived home tired but less tense—and ready for a hot meal. An omelet, perhaps? That would be fast, easy, and filling.
But all thoughts of food fled when she retrieved her mail.
Because tucked among the ads and the bills was another envelope addressed in her sister’s hand.
“What do you think about this one?”
Lance stifled a groan as his future sister-in-law dragged him toward yet another couch in the vast sea of furniture. This shopping trip was worse than a visit to the dentist.
“Lance?”
He gave the tan leather couch a fast once-over. “It looks fine to me.”
Lisa planted her hands on her hips. “You’ve said that about everything I’ve shown you.”
“That’s because I like everything you pick out. You have excellent taste.”
“Resorting to flattery, are we?”
“It’s the truth. Besides, if I’d known what to buy, I wouldn’t have bribed you to come with me in the first place.”
“But I can’t help you if I don’t have a handle on your tastes. You must have some preferences.”
Not about furniture.
When it came to women—different story. He knew exactly what he preferred in the female gender. Tall, leggy, blonde, blue-eyed . . .
He frowned.
Wait a minute.