Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

mured as she helped him up, applause filling the auditorium. “I barely tapped your windpipe. Did you really think I’d kick your balls through your nose?”

“Never crossed my mind.” His reply was drowned out by the applause. “I know you’re a pro. Pure reflex on my part.”

“I’ll try not to take it personally.” Sobering, Sloane turned to address the room. “That was just one example of using Krav Maga in self-defense,” she explained. “There are dozens of moves, for whatever threatening situation you may find yourself in. Read the tip sheet I passed out. In it you’ll find contact information on local Krav Maga programs. I can’t stress training enough. It’s empowering, it’s practical, and it works.” She turned to her attacker, gesturing for him to remove his ski mask. “How about a round of applause for John Jay’s own Dr. Elliot Lyman. He was a great demo partner and a good sport.”

More applause as Elliot complied.

“Even if you are still a chicken,” Sloane added under her breath. “Back in high school, you ducked every time I slammed one of your lobs back at you, even though you had seven inches and two years on me. Nothing’s changed.”

“Then I was a computer geek,” he reminded her. “Now I’m a computer-science professor. A nerd who plays with algorithms. Not a kick-ass FBI agent like you.”

“Ex–FBI agent,” she reminded him.

“For now. That’ll change.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see.” Sloane’s jaw tightened in a way that declared the subject closed.

She finished her presentation, answered a slew of questions, and then chatted with her copresenters for a while after the seminar broke up. She knew the John Jay faculty participants from previous workshops they’d given here, and from her visits to Elliot. They’d known each other since her freshman year in high school when she’d tutored him in Spanish and he’d tutored her in computers. They’d stayed in touch afterward, and resumed their friendship when Sloane left the Bureau and moved back east.

An hour later, she was heading for her car, reflecting on the disparate opinions voiced by law enforcement professionals and academicians. Watching silver-haired Lillian Doyle explain the roots of violence in modern-day civilization to Jimmy O’Donnelly, a retired NYPD detective who’d seen every heinous form of violence imaginable, was like watching two people talking two different languages. The louder they spoke, the less they understood each other.

Still, the eclectic composition of the panel was good for the attendees. They’d gotten a varied perspective on the subject of crimes against women. It was also good for the speakers. Neither Jimmy O’Donnelly nor Larry Clark was the type to retire. As for the professors, they reveled in the debates. Especially Lillian Doyle, who, according to Elliot, needed the mental distraction. Her cancer was no longer in remission, and this semester had been a tough one on her.

Sloane herself enjoyed doing these workshops. They were good for her in more ways than one.

She turned up the collar of her coat as a stiff breeze blasted across her face, reminding her that winter wasn’t quite over. A throbbing pain shot through her palm, triggering the same vivid flashback as always. The knife, slicing through her flesh. The blood. The pain. It was an image she couldn’t escape. It had changed the course of her life.

It had changed her.

Now she winced, belatedly realizing she should have put on her street gloves before venturing outside. Her occupational therapist would be royally pissed if she knew. Well, no point in fishing for them now. She was practically at her car.

A few minutes later, she hopped into her Subaru Outback. It took her extra time to turn the key in the ignition, and she gritted her teeth against the discomfort.

The engine had just turned over when her cell phone rang.

The caller ID read private. Not unusual. Most of her clients chose to protect their privacy.

“Sloane Burbank,” she said into the mouthpiece.

“Sloane?” a women’s tentative voice replied. “This is Hope Truman. Penny’s mother. I don’t know if you remember me.”

“Mrs. Truman—hello—of course I remember you.” Sloane’s brows arched in surprise. It had been a dozen years since she’d spoken to the Trumans, although she and Penny had been inseparable friends in elementary and middle school. Even afterward, when Penny had gone on to attend a private high school, they’d still gotten together for shop-till-you-drop days and sleepovers. Then social lives, college applications, and life had kicked in, and they’d eventually grown apart and ultimately lost touch. But the memories of their antics, their secret codes, and shared adolescence were the kind that lasted forever, like cherished diaries.

“How are you?” Sloane asked. “And how’s Penny? Last I heard she was working her way up the editorial ladder at Harper’s Bazaar.”

“Then you don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“That’s why I’m calling.” Mrs. Truman took a deep breath. “Penny disappeared almost a year ago.”

Sloane’s spine straightened. “When you say disappeared…”

“I mean vanished into thin air. Without a trace. And without a word to Ronald and me. No contact whatsoever.”

“No contact from Penny—or from anyone?” Sloane’s trained mind kicked into gear. The Trumans were wealthy and high-visibility. Ronald Truman was a renowned cardiologist at Mount Sinai. He was always making medical headlines. And recently his self-help books on keeping your heart healthy had topped the bestseller lists.

Making the Trumans ideal candidates for extortion.