So sure of himself. So very wrong.
Tristan used the tip of the blade to lift Ivy’s chin.
“You know what? Ivy, if you won’t tell me where the laptop is, then you’re going to sit here and do the work yourself. You’re going to solve your father’s half of the equation.”
She couldn’t. She’d tried to solve Steve’s part, got nowhere. Even if Ivy had been smart enough, which she wasn’t, the idea of sitting here and accomplishing what had taken their fathers more than twenty years was ludicrous.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” The knife inched closer to her throat. “And you—” Tristan cocked his head as if he’d picked up a sound. He lowered his voice. “—will. Don’t fucking move.”
Ivy heard it now, too: a car. Approaching slowly.
Tristan put the bag back over her head.
“Don’t fucking move.”
1009 Ocean Boulevard. 1009... a prime number.
Vaughn cut the lights and let the car coast. Spotted a vehicle in the driveway. Trunk open.
The house was incredible. Sprawling. Stunning. Overlooking a massive cliff.
Vaughn shut off the engine and watched the front windows. Shadows moved. He got out, gun clutched in his hand. Stayed low, hidden behind the car.
Ivy had to be alive in there; Tristan wouldn’t kill her.
Vaughn pictured the wall of photographs in Tristan’s locked pantry. The word “LAPTOP” in caps, circled multiple times. Ivy’s photo. She was in there.
Had to be.
Ivy didn’t need to see; all she had to do was remember.
In the same podcast featuring the girl who had mapped the car’s route while locked in the trunk, she’d also explained how she’d gotten out of zip ties.
Ivy bent over and untied her shoes. Looped the long lace from one of them through the zip ties, worked her wrists before pinching it again between thumb and forefinger. She tied this to the lace of her other shoe. Then she pushed her feet down while pulling her wrists upward. She started slowly as Tristan mumbled to himself in disbelief. Alternated pushing one foot down, then the next, all the while keeping her elbows bent, the tension high.
“Fucking cop...”
Ivy worked faster now, sawing her legs back and forth. The shoelace rubbing against the tie made avrrp vrrp vrrpsound. The plastic snapped in less than a minute, and the pain in her wrists instantly subsided.
Ivy ripped the hood off and ran, but not toward the rear doors—toward the laptop. Couldn’t leave it. Not after everything she’d been through. Not after three years of searching. She grabbed it, looked for a place to hide it. Settled on the oven. Opened it and shoved it inside. The oven door closed loudly, alerting Tristan.
“Hey! Ivy, get back here!”?
?Chapter 78
Vaughn saw theman come to the door, peer through the window. Saw another figure in the background, the outline of a woman.
Ivy.
The man turned and ran toward her.
Fuck this.
Vaughn broke from behind the car and went to the front door.
Locked.
