“And no backup? No FBI.”
“Unless things go bad.”
“Okay,” he finally agreed. “Let’s go.”
Climbing the tree was easier than he’d imagined.
Getting through the window proved more difficult. It was tight, his shoulders brushing against both sides as he held on to the jamb and swung his legs across a wide desk to land on the floor of this converted attic room. Thankfully, the lamp was lit, so he’d been able to see what he was doing. With some difficulty and a lot of dexterity, he’d avoided knocking over the computer mouse, a cup of pens, and several legal pads that had been left on the desk.
Once inside, he saw that he was in the reporter’s office. Bookshelves lined the walls, her own books filling one shelf,The Third Grave, with its author photo visible, her latest publication.
He knew.
He’d done his research.
He caught sight of the empty dog bed and reminded himself again to be wary. He figured that he could walk through the house easily and no one would become alarmed. Enough people lived here that a footstep or a creaking floorboard wouldn’t cause much concern.
But the dogs were a different story.
As quietly as possible, with his nerves strung tight and his pulse pounding in his ears, he crept down the spiral staircase to the hallway on the second floor. Double doors on one wall. The primary bedroom. Where he’d find Nikki Gillette. He eased along the hallway.
Another door.
The bathroom with a night-light softly glowing in ever-changing colors.
He peered inside.
Empty.
At the end of the hall, two more doors and what appeared to be a closet between them. Blue, flickering light from a television appeared under the door of one—possibly the sister’s room, and the other must be the child’s room. Did the toddler share it with the preteen he’d seen? Or was she alone?
He withdrew his pistol, held it tightly, his finger on the trigger.
His heartbeat ticked up as he reached the final door.
Oh so quietly, he turned the knob.
Heard the latch click.
Shoved the door open and stuck his head in first.
Another night-light provided some illumination.
Only a crib.
No other bed.
The older girl must be bunking with her mother or somewhere else in the house. Good.
Better yet, no dog. To be certain, he swept the beam of his tiny flashlight around the perimeter of the room.
Nothing.
He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, turned off the flashlight, and pocketed his gun. Silently, he crossed the carpet to the crib.
The child was lying on her back, one little arm flung out, her mop of curls framing her face. Dead asleep. Her tiny lips moved on a quiet sigh. So angelic. And perfect bait.
He took out his roll of surgical tape to cover her mouth and prevent her from screaming.
