Not only because she could tell us who was in charge of kidnapping my wife. Not even because I’m definitely going to make her pay. I have another reason for wanting to find her.
My voice is gruff. “She knows Tatiana’s face. She’ll know the body we burned wasn’t Stacia Delacy.”
She may talk to the cops if they cut her a deal, and that’s a risk I can’t take.
Reino focuses on the road with a solemn expression. “I’ll make sure the security feed and card payment data from the club go to our tech team. They can sift through the information to see if anything comes up. In the meantime, I’ll send a team to the apartment listed in the police file. We need to talk to the neighbors. Somebody may know something.”
I nod. He knows the drill.
A notification pings on my phone. It’s an alert I set up for news concerning last night’s accidental fire. The incident is on the news.
The burner phone Reino keeps in the console rings. He pulls onto the curb and takes the call. After listening for a few seconds, he says, “Thanks,” before hanging up.
“That was our snitch.” He checks his side mirror before steering the car back into the traffic. “The feds are releasing the information they held back about the explosion today. He wanted to give us a heads up before it goes public.”
“Have they made arrests?”
“There wasn’t enough evidence to tie the bratva to the container of drugs they confiscated in a warehouse the mercenaries used for stocking their black-market arms.”
In that case, the death of their third suspect, Ms. Delacy, must’ve prompted the decision to go public. After her death, they can no longer keep her questionable involvement in the explosion quiet. There will be speculation about who put a home-made bomb in a bank safe box and why the mercenaries took her there.
What they’ll never guess is that my wife, who went missing for five fucking days—which were the longest five days of my life—knows where a valuable diamond necklace is hidden. They’ll never learn the real motive for what went down at Prosperity Bank.
The public has dubbed Prosperity as the unluckiest bank in the city. The label is all over social media. First, the so-called robbery and mysterious explosion happened and then the tragic boat accident. Clients are moving their funds elsewhere. Shares are plunging. Unless a miracle saves them, it’s only a matter of time before the prestigious financial institution crashes. Even though it’s tragic, the unavoidable sinking of the bank doesn’t affect me in the least.
What concerns me is that if Naomi, aka Oxo, is alive, she’ll see the news. If she’s met Tatiana, and I’m putting my money on the fact that she has, she’ll know the face on the news is wrong. She’ll know that wasn’t the woman the mercenaries kidnapped.
It’s crucial that I get to her before she gives herself up to the cops. If she does, Tatiana will be arrested for a double homicide she can’t remember, and five bank employees plus a tour boat operator would’ve been sacrificed in vain.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Tatiana
* * *
I don’t know why I’m so nervous when I get ready for dinner. We’re just having pizza at a fast-food chain restaurant. Yet nerves that feel a lot like first date jitters skate down my back when I examine my reflection in the mirror.
I’ve opted for a casual look with an off-shoulder cashmere top and skinny jeans, which I’ve paired with ballerina flats. I’ve blow-dried my hair straight and left it hanging loose down my back. My make-up is light, accentuating the green color of my eyes and making my lips look fuller. My engagement and wedding rings are my only jewelry.
Noah barges into the walk-in closet, wearing jeans and a white shirt. “Is it time to go?”
Laughing, I catch him in my arms. “In a minute. Daddy should be home soon.” I tap his nose. “What did I say about knocking before you come in?”
He pulls a face. “I forgot.”
I crouch down and hug him against me, breathing in the apple scent of the no-tears kiddie’s shampoo in his hair. “I understand, sweetheart. It’s still new, right? You’ll remember when you get used to it.”
The moment the words have left my lips, I still.
Where did that come from?
Why would I say something that sounds as if Noah isn’t used to respecting boundaries or privacy?
Out of nowhere, an image of a small room with a double bed and a crate that serves as a bookshelf flashes through my mind. The picture is so intimately familiar and, at the same time, disconcerting, that I straighten abruptly. I have a feeling that I should know that place. Then why is my stomach contracting into a tight ball and a strange unease takes root inside me?
“Mommy?” Noah stares up at me with a frown. “Are you sick?”
