But why would they? What would they want with a nine-year-old?
“No,” Kaycee said aloud. That was another dead end. Nobody had taken Hannah. The police didn’t think so, even if they did have to pursue a “worst-case scenario.” Hannah’s note proved she’d run away.
In fact, she’d probably done it for attention from her dad. Her note practically said so.
The twelve o’clock deadline ticked in Kaycee’s head. Time was running out.
She forced herself to her feet. She had to write the column and get it out of the way. If Hannah hadn’t been found by the time she was done, she’d insist on going out to help look.
And if those crazy people were out there watching as she searched, if they were watching this very minute through some hidden lens Mark never found — so be it. She’d beat them and her fear. She would.
Kaycee hadn’t gone two steps before terror nearly drove her to the floor.
SEVENTEEN
Lorraine had just scooped Tammy from bed when she heard Martin running down the hall. He carved to a stop in Tammy’s doorway, breathing hard.
“He’s here.”
Lorraine froze.
Tammy blinked from her to Daddy. “Who’s here? Where’re we going?”
Multiple sensations hit Lorraine at once. The warmth of Tammy’s body in her arms, the little-girl smell of shampoo and sleepiness. The abject terror on Martin’s face. What was happening here?
A car door slammed outside.
Lorraine clutched Tammy to her chest. “What should I do?”
Martin’s gaze bounced around the room. He bounded toward the closet and yanked open the door. “Hide in here.” He swept clothes aside on the hanging rod.
Tammy wailed. Lorraine pressed fingers over her mouth. “Shh-shh. It’s a game; you have to be quiet.” Ducking down, she shoved herself and Tammy inside, all the way to the deep back. She crouched on shoes and toys, their edges biting into her bare feet, and held Tammy tight.
Martin pushed the clothes back in place to hide them. “Don’t move till I come get you.” He banged the door shut. The closet went black.
“Mommyyy!” Tammy twisted in her arms.
“Shh.” Lorraine’s heart rammed against her ribs. The darkness closed in on her. Her leg muscles already burned, Tammy’s weight dragging at her shoulders. “You have to be quiet.”
“I’m scared!”
“Hush!” Lorraine pressed the little girl’s face against her thudding chest. Tammy squirmed and fought, fear driving her limbs. Lorraine held on tighter as Martin’s words echoed in her mind: He’ll kill us all.
Tammy bucked her head back and started to sob loudly. Lorraine did the only thing she could — what just minutes ago she’d have considered child abuse. She clapped a hand over her daughter’s mouth and dug her fingers into the tender cheeks.
EIGHTEEN
Kaycee edged inside her office and saw two things at once — the “flying boxes” of her monitor’s screensaver and a pool of coffee on her hardwood floor. She approached her desk and reached for the mouse as if it were a cobra. With the barest brush of fingers, she pushed it. The flying boxes disappeared.
Her sunset desktop filled the screen.
Kaycee let out a breath and turned back to the kitchen for a wet dish towel, carrying the coffee mug. She cleaned up the spilled liquid, laid the dirty towel and mug in one side of the sink, and washed her hands.
As she reentered her office a realization hit. When she got home she’d never checked upstairs.
She stopped in her tracks. They could be up there. Right now. All this time she’d been in the house, all this time, and they could be lurking up there.
Slowly Kaycee’s head turned in the direction of the stairs. She swallowed hard, trying to convince herself to just settle down and write.
We see you.
They were upstairs. She knew it.
No. This was just more paranoia. She wouldn’t give in.
Kaycee walked to her desk chair and placed a hand on its back, willing herself to sit. But her body wouldn’t obey. The upper level hovered in her mind like a preying monster.
She looked back toward the stairs.
Maybe she should call the police after all.
No, Kaycee. They were all out looking for Hannah.
Kaycee licked her lips, aware of her own breathing, the feel of her feet against the floor. She lifted her hand from the chair. All she had to do was check, prove to herself no one was up there.
Fight the fear.
Weighted with dread, Kaycee turned and forced herself toward the staircase.
NINETEEN
Nico turned off Huff Street into AC Storage. He swung left and drove up to the office and Giordano’s apartment on his left. His gaze raked to the right — across the concrete and to the two long storage buildings. No one in sight.
He cut the engine on the old Chevy.
Nico kept this car hidden in his garage for jobs like this. It wasn’t registered with the DMV, and the plates were stolen long ago.
Where was Giordano’s car?
Nico gazed straight ahead, past the apartment. Must be in a parking space around the corner.
He pulled his Beretta 92 semi-automatic from the glove compartment.
The plan was simple. Nico had done it a dozen times. Get his hit into the car with some story — in this case the promise of handing over the money. Nico would tell Giordano to lie down in the backseat, since it wouldn’t do for the two of them to be seen together. Then he’d drive him to a back room of one of the family’s businesses and put a bullet in his head. The body would be boated some distance out into the ocean, weighted, and dumped.
Nico got out of his car. He stuck the Beretta in the waistband of his pants and strode toward Giordano’s apartment. He’d just check around the corner first, make sure he saw only one car there.
As he passed the door it opened. “Nico.” Giordano stepped back and waved him to come in.
Nico hesitated, then followed him inside. He shut the door.
Giordano stood frozen in his cluttered living room, looking shell-shocked. Everything about him — his expression, the way he stood, his heavy breathing — told Nico the guy had to go. If the cops got suspicious and came down on him, he’d cave.
“Get in the car. We’re goin’ for a ride.”
Giordano’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“You want your money, don’t you?”
“But you were supposed to bring it.”
“You think I’m gonna drive around with a hundred grand in my pocket?”
Giordano’s fingers curled toward his palms. “How am I getting back here?”
“I’ll bring you.”
“Then you’ll still be driving around with the money.”
Nico stomped over and thrust his face in Giordano’s. “What are you, some smart guy? Get in the car!”
Giordano shrank back. “Okay, just . . . okay.” His nervous gaze flitted around the apartment.
“What’re you lookin’ for?”
“Nothing.”
Nico stood aside and stuck out an arm — go. He didn’t want to have to get ugly and draw his gun. Not here. Giordano eyed him, then started toward the door.
From down the hall came a squeak and muted thump. Giordano hesitated midstep, his back muscles tensing. Then he jerked forward.
Nico slapped him in the shoulder. “What was that?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.” Giordano kept moving.