Until You

He took the pictures from her and stared at the first one.

It was a snapshot of an intersection. No. No, it wasn't. It was a photo of a sign at an intersection. It said, Avinida Rio Azul.

The second photo, taken from a slightly different angle, still showed the intersection and the sign but now you could also see a street corner and a street sign that said, Calle La Perla.

He flipped to the final picture. The intersection and the street corner were still visible but whoever had taken the shot had moved further back. A building showed in the photo now, a narrow, three-story structure that bore a small sign over the door.

"El Gato Negro," he murmured. "The Black Cat."

"Why would someone send these pictures to me?" Miranda said. "What do they mean?"

Conor looked up. "Damned if I know."

"Maybe it's a mistake."

He wanted to tell her she was right, that the envelope had somehow been misaddressed, but he couldn't do it. The pictures had been meant for her, all right, but why?

"Conor—there's something written on the back of that photograph."

He turned the picture over. Every muscle in his body tensed. Something was, indeed, written on the reverse side and if he'd been a betting man, he'd have put his money on the ink and the handwriting being identical to the ink and handwriting in the first notes that had been sent to Eva and to Miranda.

Miranda had seen the message, too. She moved closer and read it aloud.

"Dile a tu madre que divulgue su secreto," she said, and looked at him. "Why would someone send me a message in Spanish?"

Conor frowned. "I don't know. Can you translate it?"

"I'm not sure." Miranda chewed on her lip. "I can pick out some of the words. Madre means mother, and the last part sounds like 'reveal the secret'—"

The phone rang. Conor moved quickly, grabbed the receiver and barked, "Hello."

"Conor?" His father's voice was alive with excitement. "I've got something for you."

"What is it?"

"The name of the guy Moratelli's supposed to be working for. French, it's supposed to be, but it doesn't sound it."

Conor's hand tightened

on the telephone.

"Tell me," he said.

"Dee Lassiter. Does that mean anything to you?"

De Lasserre. The name screamed inside Conor's head.

"Conor? You still there?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely, "yes, I'm here."

But he wasn't. He was back inside that moldy pile of stone that was the home of Edouard de Lasserre, hearing the Count talk about Miranda as if she were little better than a whore.

Miranda was staring at him, her eyes wide and shiny. He knew she was reading his face, that now she was fighting hard not to be afraid. He knew what he wanted to do. Drop the phone, go to her, take her in his arms and kiss her and tell her everything would be fine, it would be fine...

He tried what he hoped was a reassuring smile, turned his back and walked into the next room.

"The name isn't Dee Lassiter," he said softly to his father. "It's de Lasserre."