“I wasn’t going to keep him locked in a room once I realized the truth.”
He’s sitting on the foot of the bed, and I’m standing at the window, looking out at the now-dark sky.
I turn and go to him, straddling him on the bed, then pushing him backward until he’s flat on the mattress, my hands holding him down by the wrists. I feel his body shift and tighten under mine—arousal and fear and need all mixed up together. “I love you,” I say, then kiss him softly, the touch of my lips against his rousing me further. Making me crave his touch and the forgetfulness I know that it will bring.
“We only have a few hours left,” he says, his hands on my face, holding me still. “I don’t want you there.”
“I’ll be fine.” But the tremor in my voice betrays my fear.
“You will,” he says fiercely. “And so will Anne.”
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“I know.”
I swallow tears. “Make me forget, Damien. Please. For just a little while, make me forget.”
And Damien, thank God, pulls me close and makes the world go away.
With every car that goes by, I wonder if it’s the kidnapper driving it.
With every minute that passes, I wonder if he’s taken the money from the laundry room. If he’s freed my daughter.
I wonder if she’s happily watching cartoons. If she’s crying for her sister. For her mommy. For Daddy.
I wonder if she has any clue at all what’s going on, and I pray that she doesn’t. That there’s no fear. That there will be no scars. No horrible memories. No nightmares.
Lara believes that Anne is at Aunt Sylvia’s, and we were happy to let her believe it for now. We can worry about the truth when it’s time to face it.
When she’s home.
Please. Please let her be home soon.
I pull my windbreaker tighter around me and pace a tight circle on my corner. It’s the middle of the night, but with the ambient light from the nearby buildings, I can see well enough, even with the light rain that has started to fall. I face the traffic cameras and wonder if Damien is looking back at me. I hope he is. He should have dropped the money almost an hour ago. It’s almost one now.
Almost time for my vigil to be over.
For a brief time, we’d considered letting me have my phone or an earpiece so that I could communicate. He hadn’t forbidden that, after all.
But I rejected the idea, against Damien’s wishes. “He wants me helpless,” I said. “That’s the point. He’s not going to want me to be able to talk to my people.”
“I want you safe,” Damien had countered.
“Anne’s the one we’re worried about. And we’re going to follow the rules. Even rules he forgot to tell us about.”
I think he would have argued more, but Quincy had put his hand on Damien’s shoulder. “Buck up, mate. She’s right. You know she’s right.”
At the time, I’d felt vindicated. Now, I feel alone.
The kidnapper said I had to stay here until one in the morning, but I’d insisted that Damien stay away until one-fifteen. Just in case.
I glance at my watch. Twelve fifty-seven.
I pace some more, my gaze going to the rooftops around me. Is there really a sniper hiding up there, or is it all a ruse?
I think it’s the latter—I really do. But that’s not a theory I’m going to test.
A few more steps. Another inspection of my surroundings. Another glance at my watch.
One a.m.
I exhale in relief, then with frustration. Because now that the allotted time has passed, I don’t want to be here anymore.
I made the rules, though, and while Damien initially protested, it’s clear that he’s abiding by my wishes. So I spend fifteen interminable minutes pacing the sidewalk until, finally, I hear the low purr of a Ferrari as it slows to a stop beside me on the damp pavement.
I slide into the car, and he takes my hand, then pulls me into his arms and holds me tight as the wipers move in a steady rhythm. “Any word?” I ask, and feel him shake his head.
“Nothing,” he says, releasing me and putting the car into gear. “Dallas and Quincy say we might not hear until tomorrow morning.”
I nod, numb, and hug myself. I know we’re not in one of Lyle’s action movies, but the slow pace and uncertainty is weighing on me.
We’re silent during the drive, both lost in our fears. It’s almost two by the time we get back, but the inside of the house is still hopping. Jamie is passed out on the sofa, and as I step from the stairs onto the landing, I see Ryan drape a blanket over her.
Damien squeezes my hand, then detours toward the conference table, while I peel off to the right, toward the kitchen. More specifically, toward the coffee.
Someone’s brewed a fresh pot, and as I step around the corner, I draw in a deep breath, then end the sound on a sharp gasp as I come to a halt. “Oh.”
Sofia looks up at me from where she’s filling a tray full of mugs with fresh coffee. “Oh,” she says, as if mimicking me.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. She’s put on some weight, and it looks good on her. Before, she was too skinny, as if her problems had eaten away at her. Now, she has curves, and her face glows with health. Her hair is pulled back in a French braid, and a few colorful beads have been woven into the strands. Her eyes are wide, a mixture of fear and shock.
“I—I’m sorry,” she says.
I know she doesn’t mean for being out of her room. After Damien released Ollie, I told him that he could do the same for Sofia. After all, she’d passed the polygraph. There was no reason to keep her a prisoner. No reason other than to keep her away from me.
“It’s okay,” I say, more out of politeness than because I really mean it. But the truth is that I’m too tired and too stressed to keep up any pretense. “You were civil to me t
wo years ago when we brought Lara home. Then you start sneaking around? What the hell was I supposed to think? For that matter, what were you thinking?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about Damien.” She lifts her shoulder. “I needed help. He’s where I go.”
“He’s my husband.” I hear the ferocity in my voice.
“He’s my friend.” There’s equal power in hers.
“You tried to hurt me,” I snap.
She blinks and a tear runs down her cheek. “That was before. I swear, I’m better now. I was just hurting. The baby. I just…” She swallows. “I was just hurting.”
Fuck. I understand pain, especially where a child is concerned. But I also understand fear and self-preservation, and where Sofia is concerned, I will always be wary.
But she’s right, too. In some small way, she’s right. And I know that a part of Damien will always belong to her, as much as that might pain me.
So I walk to her, take one of the mugs, and then take a single step back. She watches me, wary, but doesn’t move.
“Next time, come in through the front door,” I say. And then, with my heart pounding in my chest, I turn away from her, and walk back into command central.
25
I’m weighted down with exhaustion, my eyes heavy, my muscles protesting. I’ve barely slept since this ordeal began, and the few minutes I did grab were fraught with nightmares that gave me no rest.
I’m both hot and cold, my gut clenching, my stomach burning with acid.
I’m the walking dead, barely keeping my shit together, so tired my vision is blurred.
But I can’t sleep.
I can’t bear to go to my bed, away from the people who are helping to bring back my daughter, away from the call that will tell us where to find her. And though I’ve tried closing my eyes on the couch in the living area, sleep refuses to come.
“You should take this,” Damien says, holding out a small pill. But I only shake my head. I can’t risk not waking up when the time comes. I can’t miss even one second of news about my baby.