“Yes.”
“Any visits from anyone connected to this case?”
Iz twirled the boa for several seconds. “Max Carter and Harry Maxwell were regulars until the time of Harry Maxwell’s death.”
She raised her eyebrows. Max had moved from his lair? How, given his sheer size? “What hospital is Max holed up in?”
“St. Vincent’s.”
“His condition?”
The boa twirled again. “Critical but stable.”
“Great. Iz, can you do a search of the case files and grab the list of children placed into Greenwood’s care?”
“Got it, sweetie.”
“Patch it through to my wristcom, will you?”
“Consider it patched.”
The wristcom beeped, indicating it was receiving information. “Thanks, Izzy.”
“Have a nice night, sweetness.”
She hung up, then glanced at her watch. It was nearly two in the morning. The hospital wasn’t going to let her interview Max at this hour, no matter how vital it might be. She’d have to wait several hours. All she could really do now was head home and get a few hours’ sleep.
—
Sam woke with a start. Her heart thundered with a rhythm that spoke of fear. Heat crawled over her skin, warning of danger. She glanced at the time. Four fifteen. She’d been home for nearly two hours, and asleep about half that.
She stared into the darkness that filled the living room. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa, as she did most nights. The TV had turned itself off, and the only sound to be heard was the wind sighing through the window she’d left slightly open.
So what had woken her so abruptly?
She wasn’t sure. Frowning, she rose and headed to the bathroom. But halfway there, she heard it—a slight beep outside her front door. An inconspicuous sound unless you knew what it meant. Someone was using a key-coder to break into her apartment.
The sensation of danger crawled over her skin, so intense it burned. But before she could move, the door handle turned. She stilled, barely daring to breathe, and hoped like hell the shadows would hide her.
The door opened slightly. A figure appeared, dressed in black, features covered by a mask. A woman.
She hesitated in the doorway, then threw something toward the bedroom. It landed with a soft thump, the impact obviously cushioned by the thick carpet. The woman stepped back and closed the door.
Sam stepped toward the object on the floor. It was round and metallic, and it had numbers that glowed into the darkness. Numbers that were counting down from ten…nine…eight…
A bomb. Another goddamn bomb. And she’d only just had the place rebuilt after the last one…
She dove for the window, as she had last time. There was little other choice. The bomb beeped and then exploded. Heat sizzled across her bare feet as she crashed through the window. Glass and flames followed her into the night as she tumbled down to the ground two stories below. Only, like a cat, she somehow landed not only on her feet, but unhurt. She wasted no time on reflecting how or why this was possible, running instead for the front of the building.
A car engine roared to life. She cursed and pounded around the corner. Lights cut into the darkness. She threw up her arm to protect her eyes, then she realized the lights were drawing close. The engine roared and tires squealed as the driver accelerated—directly at her.
She threw herself sideways, but not fast enough. The car swiped her side, and pain leapt like fire through her body. She hit the concrete with a grunt. Darkness surged through her and she knew no more.
—
Gabriel leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. They ached, like the rest of him ached—and his heart most of all. But there was no time to rest, no time to contemplate what if. Not until he caught the bitch who’d murdered his sister.
Behind him, his father paced, his strides long and somehow furious. Grief was something that hadn’t fully hit the Stern