She slipped her arm through his. “I know. Let’s go see Karl and Irina. They’ve missed you, too.”
He hesitated. “I . . . I’ve got a hotel room. I’ll just go check in and come back.”
She looked up at him again, softening her words with a smile. “We still have some differences to work out, you and me. But there’s one thing about you that I’ve always admired and that’s your integrity. And courage.”
His face flushed with embarrassment. “That’s two things.”
Shaking her head, she patted his arm. “If you made a mistake, you admitted it and asked for forgiveness. Even to us kids.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “I hurt him. Karl. He was my best friend and I just walked away. I didn’t trust him.”
She took his hand, lifted it to her cheek. “Dad, does Karl know about what happened to you in Central America? That you were captured? And everything else?”
He nodded, his face flushing again, but this time with shame. “He was the one that got me out,” he whispered.
Daisy’s chest constricted. Thank you, Karl. Thank you, a thousand times. “So, on one hand, you should have known you could trust him. That you didn’t wasn’t a good thing. On the other hand . . .” She trailed off, ducking low so that she could meet his downcast gaze. “He, of all people, should understand why you made the decisions that you made. You felt cornered and scared.”
Her father swallowed hard. “You got really smart,” he said hoarsely.
“Yeah, well.” She squeezed his hands. “Go in there, Dad. Tell Karl you’re sorry. He’ll forgive you. I know it.”
Frederick drew a deep breath. “I know it, too.”
“Frederick?” a man asked.
Together they turned—and froze. Because Karl stood in the doorway to the waiting room, watching them, his face uncharacteristically unreadable.
Frederick reached out a tentative hand. “Karl,” he whispered. “It’s good . . .” He cleared his throat. “Good to see you.”
Then Karl closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Frederick and holding him tight. “Frederick. Welcome back.”
Her father exhaled and Karl met her eyes over Frederick’s shoulder. “Give us a few minutes, Daisy. Rafe has good news from Gideon’s doctor.”
Daisy gave her father’s back a light pat but had to keep herself from running into the waiting room. Rafe and Sasha stood when she hurried in.
“Gideon’s come through the surgery,” Rafe said. “He’s in recovery.”
Daisy’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, thank goodness. And his hand? Will he regain use of it?”
“The doctor didn’t say,” Sasha answered, linking her arm through Daisy’s. “But we’ll be able to see him in a few minutes. Everything’s okay.”
Daisy leaned her head on Sasha’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 5:45 P.M.
Zandra flinched. She’d felt the little shake rattle through the room. The front door. He was home.
No. Please no. The sound of her own whimper had her eyes stinging.
She clenched her jaw. No, she mentally repeated much more firmly. Gathering her strength, she straightened her spine.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington. Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas.
A key rattled in the lock. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.
Zandra closed her eyes. Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.
She braced herself for the first strike, but it never came. Instead, she heard a slight beeping sound. Cracking her eyes open just enough to see, she watched him open a safe.
And withdraw a gun. And a silencer.
No, no, no. Not yet.
At least it’ll be quick. Please, God, let it be quick.
But he didn’t shoot her. He merely checked the magazine and nodded once before dropping the gun into his coat pocket.
She didn’t notice the scarf wound around his hand until he began to take it off.
Bloody. It was covered in dried blood.
Oh. Wow. His hand. It looked . . . like he’d been mauled by an animal.
That had to hurt.
Which made her feel triumphantly, ridiculously happy.
He tossed the bloody scarf in a trash bag, then rummaged in a drawer, coming up with gauze pads and medical tape. Just like he’d used on her.
Because he hadn’t wanted her to bleed too much. He wanted her to stay alive. Wanted her conscious.
Say you’re sorry, he’d chanted. Say you’re sorry.
Fuck you, she snarled in her mind.
He continued to rummage in the drawer, bringing out a pack of sewing needles. Big ones. And more of the suture thread he’d used to close her own wounds. The wounds he’d carved into her body.
She watched as he attempted to bandage his left hand with his clearly less dexterous right. He ended up using too much tape to secure one of the gauze pads, leaving his thumb looking like a mess.
He then wrapped tape around his fingertips and the pad of his thumb. He’s covering his fingerprints. He finished by sliding his uninjured right hand into a black glove, using his teeth to pull it on. A final search of the drawer yielded a hat with a wig already attached. He put the hat on and adjusted the hair of the wig in a small mirror, then slid on a pair of wire-framed glasses, lenses tinted a light brown.
He looks like someone else. That was how he’d never been caught. Not yet, anyway.
“Nice of you to join me,” he said quietly.
Too late, she realized she’d opened her eyes fully.
He was smirking at her. “Don’t worry, Zandra. I haven’t forgotten about you. I’ll be back later and we’ll have some more fun.”
Then he gathered the suture materials and left the small room. She could hear the turn of his key in the lock. A minute later, the slight rattle shook her again.
He was gone.
But he would be back.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 6:25 P.M.
He pulled into the parking lot of one of the hospitals in the farthest east of Sacramento’s suburbs, idling his minivan next to the employee exit. He’d traded the truck for a minivan in a grocery store lot just south of Chico, about an hour and a half north. He’d sat in the grocery store’s parking lot waiting for an employee to leave their minivan and enter the store to start their shift, hoping that would buy him at least a few hours before anyone realized the vehicle was gone.
But no one had been available in the parking lot to take care of a baby, so he’d moved the car seat into the minivan and kept driving down the back roads, avoiding the interstate, and no one had given him a second glance.
Just another dad driving the family minivan.
Now, he was ready for the last phase of his getaway plan, having armed and disguised himself again after his quick visit home. His wound was still gaping and bleeding. He needed stitches but didn’t trust the dexterity of his right hand.
He waited, watching for someone in scrubs to leave the employee exit. Many would have changed into street clothes in the hospital’s locker room, but he was hoping at least one medical professional would still be wearing identifying scrubs. He didn’t want to grab an administrator by mistake.
He’d prefer a doctor, or even a physician’s assistant, but he’d take a nurse in a pinch. He wasn’t picky. He just needed to have his hand stitched up.
Excellent. He spied the woman coming out of the hospital, her head down as she walked his way. She was searching her handbag. Maybe for her keys. It didn’t matter. As long as she wasn’t searching for a gun, he didn’t care.
Leaving the motor running, he got out of the minivan and slid the side door open, revealing the kid, still sleeping. It was pretty awesome, actually, how good this kid was on the road. He leaned over the car seat and muttered, “Sorry, kid,” before easing the pacifier out of her mouth.
Her lips bent into a sleeping pout, but she didn’t wake up.
He was beginning to think there was something wrong with her, actually. Kids weren’t supposed to sleep so much. She hadn’t even woken long enough to cry for food.
Whatever.
This child was a means to an end. Nothing more.
The woman was almost to his van, so he went into action. Pulling the cap he wore low on his face, just in case there were cameras, he “stumbled” from the van into her path, making his expression panicked.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” He kept his head low, which worked because she was short. Not even five feet tall, if that. “Are you a doctor? I need a doctor.”
Her spine straightened. “I’m a nurse. I can call you a doctor.”
“No! No, please,” he pleaded. “There’s no time. My baby isn’t breathing. Please. Can you please help me?”
She sprang into action. “Where is your baby?”
“Right here.” He led her to the van, where both the driver’s-side door and the sliding door behind it were still open. “Please, help me. She just started making choking sounds and—” He cut himself off, bringing the gun out of his pocket and pressing the barrel to her side. “Don’t scream and I won’t hurt you.”