I fold the paper carefully and set it on the desk. Then I sit back and wait.
The sun has set completely now. The room is dark except for the lamp on the desk and the outdoor lights that come on and allow some of their glow to filter into the room. I wonder what my father is doing right now. Is he at his office, working late? Is he at home, having dinner alone?
I'm still sitting there, staring at the folded letter, when I hear footsteps in the hallway again.
The door opens without warning, and he's there again, filling the doorway with his presence. I stand up automatically, my body responding to the command in his posture even though he hasn't said a word. His eyes go to the letter on the desk. "You finished."
"Yes."
He walks over and picks it up, unfolding it carefully. I watch him read, my heart pounding, wondering what he's thinking. His expression gives nothing away; it remains cold and unfeeling.
When he finishes, he folds it again and slips it into his pocket. Then he pulls out a phone. "Now we call," he says.
My stomach drops. "Now? Right now?"
"Da. He needs to hear your voice so he knows you are alive."
He's already dialing, the numbers clicking as he presses them. I realize with a jolt that he knows my father's private number—the one that's not listed anywhere, the one only family and close business associates have. These people are more connected than I thought.
The phone rings. Once, then twice. Then a voice I know better than almost any other: "Alexander Baumann."
It’s my father. His voice is clipped and professional, slightly annoyed at being interrupted.
The man with the icy eyes holds the phone out to me. Our eyes meet for a brief second, and I feel that prickling over my skin again, a strange jolt down my spine. I take the phone, and our fingers brush. There’s that jolt again, so startling that my heart skips in my chest. He’s standing very close to me, and I can smell the smoky scent of his cologne. He smells fucking delicious.
Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?
I press the phone to my ear. "Dad?"
There’s a moment of silence, and then he speaks. "Liesl?" I hear a tightness in his voice, as if he’s already aware that hearing me at the other end of an unknown number can’t possibly be from anything good. “What is this?”
"It's me.” My voice cracks slightly despite my best efforts. "I'm okay. I'm?—"
“What do you mean, you’re okay?” The words come out sharp, demanding. "What happened? Why are you calling me from a different number?—”
“I was taken. This morning. I don’t know where I am exactly…”
The man clears his throat, and I bite my lip. “I’m supposed to let you know that I’m alive.”
"Are you hurt?" He cuts me off, his voice rising. "Did they hurt you?"
"No. I'm not hurt. I'm fine, I just?—"
"Put them on the phone. Right now. Put whoever's in charge on the phone."
I look up at the man standing in front of me. He's watching me with those ice-chip eyes, his expression unreadable. I hold out the phone.
He takes it, and when he speaks, his voice is calm and cold, just as it’s been every other time I’ve heard him speak. "Mr. Baumann. Your daughter is alive and unharmed. She will remain that way if you follow instructions."
I can hear my father's voice through the phone, loud and furious, but I can't make out the words. The man listens without expression.
"You will receive a letter with details," he says, cutting through whatever my father is saying. "You will have forty-eight hours to arrange payment. When payment is confirmed, your daughter will be released unharmed."
More shouting from my father. Threats, probably. Promises of what he'll do to them, how he'll destroy them, how they've made the biggest mistake of their lives. The man's expression doesn't change. "You have forty-eight hours, Mr. Baumann. I suggest you use them wisely."
He rattles off a phone number—a different one, probably a burner—and then hangs up before my father can respond.
The silence in the room is deafening. He slips the phone back into his pocket and looks at me. I'm still standing there, my hand half-extended where I was holding the phone, my heart racing from hearing my father's voice.
