He punched the digits into Pam’s phone. No one answered. When asked to leave a message, he said, “This is Zander Ford. Call me back.” He dialed her number again. No answer. He swerved to the side of the road and came to a stop so that he could text her.Pick up the phone. This is Zander Ford. It’s an emergency. He sent the text and pulled back onto the road.
He called her again. “Pick up,” he growled.
She picked up. “Hello?”
“It’s Zander.” For the second time since he’d climbed into the Mazda, he recounted Britt’s kidnapping.
Emerson Kelly had not told them everything she knew the day they’d spoken with her. If anyone had information on the four men who’d taken Britt, it was her.
Emerson responded to Zander with silence.
“Emerson?” he said sharply.
“I’m very sorry this happened.” She spoke in a tone so tightlycontrolled it made him suspect that he’d shaken her. “I wish you would have contacted me as soon as you hit on a suspected location for the painting. I could have prevented this.”
She was blaming him, and her arrow struck home because he deserved blame. Britt had led Tom and his men to The Residences. But she never would have gone to the Residences if he hadn’t gone there first or if he’d told her that they might be monitoring her car. He’d had no business making the trip to Olympia today. He should have stayed in Merryweather and waited for Agent Delacruz. If he had, none of this would have happened.
An image of Britt’s family—her parents, her sisters, her grandmother—rose before him. His gut roiled at the thought of having to tell them that Britt had been taken.
He cleared his throat, scattering the image. “The only thing that matters now is rescuing Britt. I have to know what you know about Tom and Nick and the others.”
Again, no reply.
He reached a stoplight and squeezed shut his eyes against a tide of desperation. “I believe that you’re honorable.” It was a lie. He strongly suspected that Emerson had no honor. He’d pegged her as a person who, like his father, acted solely in her own best interests. “You cannot allow an innocent woman to die because she got herself involved with a painting stolen in a heist you planned. I trust that youwon’tallow that.”
Silence.
“Emerson!” he shouted. He had tears in his eyes as he sent the car hurtling through the intersection when the light turned green. His hands, bloodied at the knuckles, strangled the steering wheel.
“I’m here,” she said.
“I need you to help me.Now.”
“What are you planning?”
He hesitated. Tom was holding Britt as collateral in order to keep Zander from going to the police. At this moment, Zander was driving as fast as he could in the direction of the police. If Emersonwas working with Tom and she informed Tom that Zander hadn’t kept his end of the bargain, Britt could pay the price.
However, Emerson had sounded genuinely surprised just now, when Zander had told her what had occurred. If she was in league with Tom, why hadn’t she driven to Olympia today to retrieve the painting with the others?
His instincts were telling him that they’d need Emerson’s knowledge if they were going to have a hope of finding Britt. In exchange for that knowledge, he was going to have to depend on a woman he didn’t trust.
“I’m planning to work with the Merryweather police, the sheriff’s department, and the FBI to bring Britt home. If you help us, I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”
“I’m not interested in your money. However, your friends might be able to offer me something I am interested in.”
“I’m on my way to the Merryweather police station. Will you meet me there?”
“Yes. Bring the highest-ranking people you can. I’ll bring my attorney.”
They’d chained Britt to a pipe.
She couldn’t see what they’d done, exactly, because the pipe ran up the wall at her spine, and they’d fastened her wrists together behind her back on the far side of the pipe. They’d used a rigid binding—plastic, maybe—to restrain her wrists. It had no give. She’d been pulling and twisting and tugging without success ever since they’d left her in this room. Maybe thirty minutes ago? All she’d managed to do was chafe the skin on her wrists and cause a few of her fingers to turn numb.
She eyed her industrial surroundings. Stained concrete floor. Dirty cream-colored paint. Exposed ductwork.
In Olympia, they’d handcuffed her before stuffing her into the middle seat in the Mercedes’ second row. She’d expended so much energy fighting them that her sawing inhales and exhales had beenthe only sound inside the SUV when it had pulled away from The Residences. As soon as she’d recovered her breath, Nick had pulled a hood over her head, and Tom had turned on Guns N’ Roses.
Agonizing fear and guilt had stretched her time in the Mercedes, making every minute grueling. Her thoughts churned the entire drive.What have I done? Is this really happening to me? It can’t be. It is. What have I done?
