“One way or another, this is connected to Damien.”
The words hit me like a punch. I realize, of course, that he means Damien’s money. But the bottom line is the same. My children are in danger because of who their father is.
“He’s right,” Quincy says. “And Nikki, I’m telling you right now that you’re going to have to find a way to come to terms with that.”
I nod slowly, numb.
I’m going to have to come to terms with that.
Yes, I am. And so, I think, is Damien.
I nod again, then head for the door, telling them I need to be alone. Except I already am alone. I pass through the living area, so full of people, many of whom were strangers before all of this. I feel shell-shocked, the walking wounded. My daughter is missing. Someone stole her. She’s being punished for who her parents are. For her mother falling for Damien. For Damien choosing me.
I see him in the kitchen. He’s holding a mug with two hands, his head bowed. I want to go to him—I almost turn that way. But I don’t. I stay on my path, moving with purpose to our bedroom. To our massive closet.
There’s a ladder like the kind in libraries, and I climb it, then find the old suitcase I’d shoved up there. I pull it down, then open it up to get to the leather case I’d hidden inside. I shouldn’t have kept the case—I know that. I should have gotten rid of it. I’d meant to so many times, but each time I thought about it, I pulled it back. Because if the case is in the house and I don’t use it, that means I’m strong.
Today, I’m not strong. Today, I’m weak.
Today, I’m going to take what I need.
The case is old, but the leather is polished to a sheen. I unzip it, remembering the horror when Sofia gave it to me. Remembering her taunts. But even then, the instruments were beautiful. Gleaming antique scalpels, lovingly tended, their blades as sharp as possible.
I want this.
This is why I’ve saved them. Because I knew—somehow, I just knew—that the day would come when I’d need them. When I’d have to cut to survive. When that pain would be the only rope that would get me through because Damien—oh, dear God—because Damien would be lost, too.
Slowly, I choose one of the scalpels. I lift it out from the indention into which it fits. I feel the comforting weight in my hand and I extend my arm.
Then reason grabs me. Not my arm. They’ll see.
I stand up, then put the case on the island that takes up the middle of my closet. My fingers fumble for the button of my jeans, and I start to shimmy out of them. The denim is tight around my thighs, and I’m pushing the material down when I see my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I’m looking up, meeting my own eyes. And for a moment, I just stare.
Then I gasp, clamping my hand over my mouth before the gasp turns into a yell.
No.
No, no, no.
I don’t have to do this.
I have the strength to fight this. Damien may be lost with me right now, but he’s given me enough strength over the years. I’m not surrendering. I’m not doing this.
Wildly, I tug the jeans back up, then fasten them. I put the scalpel back in the case, and I’m about to shove the case into the little suitcase when my phone rings, so I toss the case into my underwear drawer, then pull my phone out from the pocket of my jeans, where it’s been all day, a lifeline to Anne.
I race out of the closet and run through the room and into the hall. I’m breathless when I burst into the main living area just as the phone shrieks out a second ring. I look around for Damien, but I don’t see him anywhere.
“The phone,” I say stupidly as Ryan holds up his hand, not letting me answer just yet. He signals to his team—at all the men and women who will be monitoring this call. Tracing it if they can. My phone. Damien’s phone. The house phone. Every phone held by every staff member—Gregory, the cleaning staff, the guards, the grounds folk. Every one of their calls routed through the control center, too.
“Ryan...” My finger hovers, desperate to answer. I don’t recognize the number, but today that doesn’t matter. I have to answer. I have to know. “Ryan. Please.”
Denise—blonde and efficient—raises a hand in signal.
“Go,” Ryan tells me, and I answer the call. “Hello? Hello?”
“Nikki?”
It’s Bree. Her voice frantic. Hysterical.
“Bree?” I whisper as my knees go out.
The world turns gray and I start to fall. And for the first time in a long time, it isn’t Damien who’s there to catch me.
20
“I should have gone with them. Dammit, why the fuck didn’t I insist on going with them?”
I’m pacing the first floor of the house, my phone out so that I can watch the dot that represents Damien move across the map. They’re heading to Mulholland, which I find ironic considering where Damien found me when all of this started.
“Less chance the driver got picked up on a security camera,” Dallas explained, before he, Quincy, Damien, and Ryan set out, tracking the burner phone that Bree’s oh-so-polite kidnapper had left with her.
“You did insist,” Jamie reminds me. “But there was no way that was happening, and we both know it.”
“Guess not,” I say resentfully. “I’m a grown woman. I’m Bree’s employer and her friend, and I’m the mother of a child who’s still missing.” The pitch of my voice is rising with my hysteria, and I’m having a hell of a time dialing it back. I’m running on fumes. Saturday night, neither Damien nor I got much sleep. I don’t even remember when Sunday turned into Monday, and the sleep I did have was neither long nor restful.
“They’re afraid it’s a trap,” Lyle says. “Damien’s protecting you. They all are.”
I want to tell him that’s bullshit. But Lyle’s one of the nicest guys I know, and so I keep my mouth shut and just nod instead, then brush my fingers over my lips as I remember the brush of Damien’s goodbye kiss.
Dangerous, I think, and fight back a fresh wave of fear. Surely picking up Bree won’t turn out to be dangerous. Surely, there won’t be some tragedy that makes this kiss the last.
Riley’s downstairs as well, though he’s been standing quietly in the open doorway, looking out at the hills of Malibu that surround our property. His phone rings, the sharp sound combined with my lingering fear making me jump.
“Go ahead,” he says into his phone, as I look at mine and see that the Damien dot has stopped somewhere on Mulholland near Sepulveda. I hold my breath, watching Riley, who talks in grunts and single syllables. Then he ends the call, looks at me, and says, “They got Bree. She’s unharmed.”
Jamie grabs my arm, and I go weak with relief, mixed together with my continuing fear for my daughter.
“This is good,” Riley says, coming to stand in front of me. “Nikki, look at me.”
I do as he orders. “This means we’re dealing with someone who’s not worried about a freed hostage leading us back to him.”
I nod. That makes sense.
“And it also means that the likelihood we’re dealing with someone who snatched them for white trafficking has gone down as well.”
“Unless they only traffic children,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, as if voicing the fear will make it come true.
“Possible, but doubtful.”
I look up at him, trying to decide if he means it, or if he’s just trying to make me feel better.
“If that were the case, they’d most likely just kill Bree. Not set her free with a phone.”
I nod agreement, because I already know this most likely isn’t a trafficking situation. A belief that gives me some small amount of comfort.
From the moment we knew about the kidnapping, Ryan’s team—and then later Dallas’s people—have been watching the airports and bus stations and docks. Even the border into Mexico. But with the grab seeming to be so specific—and since the victim is Damien Stark’s daughter—the assumption from the beginning was a kidnap for ransom.
Now, with Bree’s release, that seems even more likely.
The house phone rings from where it sits on a pedestal-style table next to the couch in the first floor living area. I glance at it, then hurry that direction. It’s a replica of an old-fashioned phone, with a faux rotary dial and the kind of handset that appears to sit on a claw that extends up from the base.
“Wait,” Riley says, and I nod, my heart pounding. This is it. This will be the ransom demand.
Riley taps his earpiece. “I need you locked on now, dammit.” Then he nods at me, and I rush to answer.
“Hello?”
“Um, hi. This is Rory Claymore. Can I speak to Bree Bernstein, please?”
I frown, meeting Riley’s gaze. He motions for me to continue talking. “Rory, it’s Nikki Stark.”
“Oh, wow. Mrs. Stark. Sorry. I didn’t realize you’d answer. Bree gave me this number awhile back. She said her cell phone had crappy service in the kids’ playroom.”