Thin Ice

by Irene Hannon

It couldn’t hurt to check.

  Gripping the walker, she slowly retraced her steps to his door. Paused. Listened. No sound of him returning—but he didn’t usually stay out late on weeknights. He could come through the door at any moment.

  She needed to move fast.

  Summoning up her courage, she lifted her hand. Grasped the knob. Twisted.

  Her eyes widened as the door opened. Unlocked twice in two weeks.

  If nothing else tonight, she would have some relief for her headache—and she’d take a few extra pills to stash in her room too.

  After pushing the door wide, she listened once again. All clear. Gripping the walker, she maneuvered it into the room and toward the desk as fast as she could. She should be able to get in and out in three minutes if . . .

  Za ime boga!

  She gasped, heart stumbling as she gaped at the picture of the skater.

  There was a knife stuck through her chest.

  An icy chill swept over her despite the wool sweater she was never without in the tepid apartment.

  Her gaze dropped to the mutilated mouse on top of the desk.

  Lifted again to the pretty skater.

  Dead.

  That single word, and the images from the news stories, surged through her mind.

  Somehow, Neven was involved in all of that. The fire, the river, the distress on that young woman’s face as the camera got too close.

  And she was in danger.

  Mevlida knew that as surely as she knew she couldn’t stand by and let an innocent person be harmed. Maybe she hadn’t been able to save Mihad or Daris or Sonja . . . or even Neven’s father . . . but she had to try to help this young woman. To warn her.

  Because difficult as it was to accept, something inside her grandson was broken—and for whatever reason, he was intent on destroying the woman in the picture.

  But what could she do?

  Her chin quivered as she looked from the stabbed photo to the dead mouse. If she called the police, they would probably dismiss her story. She had no proof. No command of the language to communicate her concerns. No words to make anyone grasp what Neven was capable of if they could understand her.

  The pounding in her head intensified, and she fumbled for the bottle of pills. Shook out eight. Retreated to the hall, closing the door carefully behind her.

  Only after she’d taken four of the tablets and the throbbing subsided did she allow herself to think through the problem.

  If she did call the police . . . if she did find a way to communicate with them . . . if they did believe there was cause for concern and began investigating . . . Neven would be livid. And even if they didn’t believe her, he would be furious. He hated dealing with anyone connected to the government.

  No matter the outcome, if she called the authorities her life wouldn’t be worth living.

  The minutes ticked by as she wrestled with the dilemma, fingers clenched around the handle of the walker—until, all at once, a solution popped into her head. One so bold, so daring, her lungs froze.

  No.

  That was crazy.

  She shook her head, trying to erase the idea from her mind. She didn’t have the courage to carry out such an audacious plan.

  But if she didn’t, that skater could end up dead—at her grandson’s hands.

  And the blood would be on hers as well.

  Trembling, she slowly lowered herself into the chair where she spent hours with her book of prayers—the only thing that offered her comfort these days. She picked up the well-thumbed volume, caressed the worn cover . . . and faced the truth.

  Neven had no conscience. No respect for life. No humanity.

  Perhaps he never had.

  If that skater had offended him in some way, he could have decided she must die—and he would have no compunction about carrying out such a sentence. Her solution might be the only way to stop whatever evil intent dwelt in his heart . . . and she could carry it out tomorrow, while he was at work. It would be finished long before he arrived home.

  But was that the best course of action?

  Oh, Mihad, what should I do?

  How she longed to see her dear husband, take his strong hand, hear his wise voice! No matter what crisis had befallen them during their marriage, he’d remained calm and clear-thinking. What would he say about her plan?

  She strained, trying to hear even a soft, distant yes or no.

  No guidance came.

  Yet she did hear the echo of a gentle encouragement he’d offered her long ago.

  When one has hope and love, all things are possible, pile moje.

  She replayed the words in her mind, savoring the memory of his kind, soothing tone as he’d spoken them, his hands cupping her face in the loving gesture that never failed to make her throat ache with tenderness.

  Might they be the answer to her dilemma?

  Mevlida looked up, into the shadows, as some creature scuttled through the darkness above the ceiling. There was no hope or love left in her life. Nor any possibility of stopping Neven’s plan, whatever it was, on her own. That would require the intervention of people with power and authority.

  She knew no one who fit that description.

  Yet she did know one person who would understand her message and make sure it reached the proper authorities.

  With unsteady fingers, she paged through her book of prayers until she found the card she’d tucked inside two years ago. Turned it over and read the scrawled note.

  “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

  She’d never expected to contact Jasna again. Finding Neven had seemed like the answer to her prayers, and he’d been so kind in those first weeks. She’d almost thrown the card away.

  Lucky she hadn’t.

  Setting the book aside, she braced for the pain in her ribs, then struggled to her feet. Once she caught her breath, she shuffled over to her nightstand. Pulled out a tablet and a pen. Returned to her chair and eased back down. Most of her plan she could implement tomorrow—if her courage held—but this part she could do tonight.

  She positioned the pen over the paper, tilted the tablet toward the light beside her chair, and began to write.

  All the while praying her desperate effort to prevent a tragedy wouldn’t be in vain.

  Christy peeked through the peephole, verified the identity of her visitor, and pulled the door open just enough to admit him.

  After squeezing through the gap, Lance nudged the door shut with his shoulder and scrutinized her. “Tough day.”

  “Yeah.” So tough it took every ounce of her willpower to keep from throwing herself into his arms.

  He jammed his hands in his pockets as if he was fighting the same impulse. “The coast is clear right now, or I would have come in the back way.”

  “It was hard to tell in the dark. That’s why I only cracked the door. I hoped once the camera guy got that shot of me at the mailbox he’d back off, but the crew was still hanging around when the sun set. Have a seat.” She backed away to give him access to the living room, where the cozy, flickering gas logs helped dispel some of the tension that had been dogging her since Sarah appeared in her office this morning bearing the blood-pressure-spiking, page-three story in the Post, complete with photos.

  So much for any hope the kidnapper might miss the news.

  “I can’t stay long.” As he spoke, he moved into the living room and claimed a spot on the couch. “I’m helping Mark out with a gang-related case, and I need to follow up on a lead tonight.”

  She sat beside him. “It’s after seven.”

  “Welcome to life as an FBI agent. Anything else happen since you phoned me about the news crew outside?”

  “No.” She twisted her fingers into a tight ball. “I’m assuming the kidnapper has gotten wind of this by now.”

  “That would be a safe bet. However, I’m convinced he’s too close to the payoff to simply walk away.”

  Christy frowned. “And the payoff is . . .
?”

  “I wish I knew—but it involves you. At this point I think we can conclude the fire and kidnapping were orchestrated to wreak havoc in your life. He can’t be happy Ginny’s body was found, and he may lie low for a while to regroup, but I doubt we’ve heard the last from him. This guy has an agenda.”

  Despite the warmth wafting toward her from the fire, the room suddenly felt cold. “Don’t you think he’ll be a lot more careful now that he knows law enforcement is involved?”

  “Yes. But on the plus side, once a story like this breaks, new leads tend to surface. Tips get phoned in to our hotline. Most won’t amount to anything, but we only need a couple legit ones to give us some traction.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “Starting tomorrow, we’ll release new details to the press every day. The existence of the notes, the names of the towns they were mailed from, the description we got from Brenda Rose. There’s no sense keeping any of that under wraps anymore.” He pulled his phone off his belt, scanned it, and frowned. “This is my brother from Walter Reed. Give me a minute.”

  As he rose and walked back toward the foyer, Christy scooted closer to the fire, trying to give him some privacy. But though he angled away and spoke in a low voice, bits and pieces of the conversation drifted toward her.

  “What are they giving him for that? . . . How long will he be in there? . . . Did you tell Mom and Dad?” Lance ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, but not till late Friday . . . Unless you think I should come sooner?”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “That makes sense. You getting any sleep?” A soft chuckle. “That sounds like Mom.” Then he stiffened. “Where’d you hear that? . . . Yeah, it broke here today too . . . Long story . . . Coping.” He dropped his volume a few more decibels. “Very funny.” Christy had a feeling they were talking about her. “Call me with an update early tomorrow . . . Yeah, you too.”

  Lance slid the phone onto his belt, waited a moment, and swiveled back to her.

  “Is there a problem with your brother?” No sense pretending she hadn’t picked up his part of the conversation.

  He returned to the couch but didn’t sit.

  That must mean he was leaving.

  She stifled a surge of disappointment.

  “He’s got an infection in his leg, and his temperature spiked to 104. They moved him into the ICU while they pump him full of antibiotics.”

  She rose, once more tempted to walk into his arms—this time to comfort rather than be comforted. Again, she held back. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. But he’s young and strong. The doctors are hopeful this is nothing more than a slight detour on his road to recovery. That’s what we’re praying for, anyway.” He wiped a hand down his face. The dicey situation with his brother and the kidnapping—not to mention the long hours he’d been putting in on other cases—had chiseled lines beside his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. “By the way, Mac saw the story about Ginny online today while he was surfing the net. I figured it would go national at some point.”

  Wonderful.

  She wrapped her arms around her body. “What if the press shows up again?”

  “Stick with no comment.” He twisted his wrist and frowned at his watch. “I need to run. Will you be all right by yourself?”

  No.

  She wanted him to stay within arm’s reach until they caught this maniac.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. The man was already stretched too thin, and he had more work to do tonight. She needed to suck it up.

  Pasting on a smile, she lifted her chin and tried to look stronger than she felt. “Yes. I have solid doors and first-class locks.”

  “But no security system.”

  Her smiled dimmed. “I’ve never needed one.”

  You do now.

  He didn’t voice that comment, but the sudden thinning of his lips communicated the message loud and clear.

  “Keep your cell close at hand. Don’t venture into dark parking lots alone. Stay alert in public. And call me if anything—and I mean anything—makes you nervous.”

  She gave a mock salute, trying to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Too bad her quip wavered.

  The twin crevices on his brow deepened. For a moment she thought he was going to comment, but instead he walked toward the door and checked the peephole. “All clear, as far as I can tell.”

  Swallowing, she tried to psyche herself up for his departure. “Thanks for stopping by. I know you’re busy.”

  She expected him to reach for the knob.

  Instead, he turned, tugged her close, and wrapped her in his arms. “I know this isn’t protocol, but somehow a handshake doesn’t seem appropriate.” His husky words were muffled against her hair.

  Closing her eyes, she held on tight and inhaled the masculine scent of his aftershave as the steady beat of his heart vibrated beside her ear, beneath the worn leather.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go.” The admission was out before she could stop it.

  “I wish I didn’t, either.” Exhaling, he slowly extricated himself. “But I’m only—and always—just a phone call away. Remember that, okay?”

  Her breath hitched as he lifted his hand and brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Okay.”

  “Lock the door behind me. I’ll wait until I hear it click.” With that, he slipped outside.

  She did as he’d asked, following his progress down the walk through the peephole’s distorted view of the world.

  Kind of like the warped way the kidnapper must perceive life.

  A shudder rippled through her, the feeling of safety she’d enjoyed in Lance’s arms evaporating as fast as breath on a frosty night.

  He was convinced she was this sicko’s primary target—and more and more, she was finding that difficult to refute.

  Yet if that was true . . .

  Stomach knotting, she gritted her teeth and accepted the hard reality.

  If that was true, Ginny had died because of her.

  Collapsing onto the sofa, she dropped her face into her hands.

  Dear God, how was she supposed to live with that?

  Trust in the Lord with all your heart.

  The line from Proverbs echoed in her mind, and she let it resonate, drawing comfort from the advice. Difficult as it was to follow, she had to believe God saw the big picture. Had to believe that with him, all things were possible.

  She also had to trust in Lance and the FBI. They were doing their best to track down the kidnapper, to make sense of events that defied logic. They were pros—and one of these days, they’d find a lead that would put this evil man in their cross hairs.

  Until then, she needed to stay calm, be careful—and pray the monster who’d taken her sister’s life gave them the time they needed to find that lead.

  The boyfriend hadn’t stayed long tonight.

  Unless he wasn’t a boyfriend.

  Nathan squinted at the tall guy as he slid into the black Cruze in front of Christy Reed’s condo. Could he be a cop?

  Except cops didn’t get cozy with their customers.

  Still . . .

  He narrowed his eyes as he studied her closed door. The police wouldn’t have been able to identify Ginny Reed’s body without DNA samples or dental records. Had Christy gone to the authorities, despite his warning? Told them about the letters and filed a missing person report?

  Or was there another explanation for the ID?

  Whatever the reason, if the body had waited another week to surface, the ID wouldn’t have mattered. His grand scheme would have been completed.

  Nathan drummed his fingers on the wheel as the guy pulled away from the curb. Maybe he was a cop. After all, he’d only begun showing up in the past few weeks. Sure, it was possible Christy had simply met someone new, that it was all coincidence—but coincidences were suspicious. Just because this guy didn’t dress or act like a cop didn’t mean he wasn’t one. Appearances and b
ehavior could be deceptive.

  He watched the taillights travel down the street. Should he follow?

  No. What was the point? Whether or not he was a cop, the police were involved. Either way, he needed to be extra careful going forward.

  The taillights disappeared, and Nathan lifted the coffee from the cup holder. Took a sip. Very little buzz remained from the three beers he’d downed in quick succession after storming out of the apartment. Three was the perfect number, enough to take the edge off without muddling his thinking. And he needed clear thinking from here on out, especially with the cops crawling all over this thing.

  He took another sip, letting the hot java sluice down and warm his insides. Having cops in the picture wasn’t ideal, but he should be fine. There was nothing to tie him to Ginny Reed’s death or to her sister. He’d left no tracks. Nor would he. He knew how to be careful.

  Juggling the coffee cup, he started the engine. No need to hang around here. Christy was safe for tonight.

  But not for much longer.

  He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He might have to alter his plans and timing slightly, thanks to this glitch—but the end result would be the same.

  Christy Reed would die.

  Sooner rather than later.

  20

  Clutching the letter, Mevlida leaned on her walker and peered out the front window of the apartment. Where was the mail carrier? He always delivered to the row of boxes outside their door by one o’clock, and it was already . . . she strained to read the clock on the living room wall . . . one thirty.

  She bit her lip. He could have taken the day off—but Thursday was an odd choice for that. Too early for what her grandson called a three-day weekend.

  Or maybe he was sick. A lot of people had the flu, according to Neven.

  Bad news, either way. The substitutes always came at unpredictable times, often late in the day—after Neven was home. If no one showed up soon, she’d have to wait until tomorrow.

  And one more day might be too late.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Whatever Neven’s plan, he could already be . . .

  The familiar red, white, and blue truck turned the corner.

  She let out a shaky breath, the envelope crinkling in her fingers. No need to delay after all.