“No contact from anyone,” Mrs. Truman was answering.
“You never received a ransom call or note?”
“Never. And God knows, we waited. Trust me, Sloane, we went through every channel and considered every option. Including the unthinkable—that it was a kidnapping gone wrong. But Penny’s body was never found.” A shaky sigh. “I’m aware of how slim the odds are. It’s been eleven months. But she’s my daughter. I can’t let it go.”
“I understand.”
Sloane knew a lot more about the odds than Mrs. Truman did. And what she knew made her sick.
“I just read the newspaper article about you and the conference you’re speaking at,” Mrs. Truman continued. “I had no idea you were an FBI agent, or that you’d left to apply your skills as a private consultant. When I saw those words—it was the first glimmer of hope I’ve felt in months. We’ve exhausted all avenues. I remember what close friends you and Penny were. You were inseparable for years. I’m asking you—no, I’m begging you—before you leave Manhattan, would you stop by my apartment? I realize I’m asking a great deal, and with absolutely no notice. I’m willing to pay anything you ask—double or triple your normal rates. I’ll have my driver pick you up at the campus and drop you off there afterward. Whatever it takes to—”
“That’s not necessary,” Sloane interrupted. There were a hundred questions running through her mind. But this situation had to be probed in person. “Penny was a big part of my life. If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it. The conference just ended. I’m in the parking lot with my motor running. I’ll swing by now, before I head home.”
“God bless you.” There were tears of gratitude in the older woman’s voice.
“What’s your address?”
“One twenty-five East Seventy-eighth, between Park and Lex. Apartment 640.”
“I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER
TWO
DATE: 20 March
TIME: 1800 hours
OBJECTIVE: Athena
Finally. She’s awake.
This time there’s awareness in her eyes. Not like the other times she came to, when she was groggy and disoriented. This time she sees me—really sees me. She’s quivering. Afraid.
She should be. She knows she’s mine.
I can feel that adrenaline rush begin. I’m used to it now, although the first time it caught me by surprise. Not anymore. Now I anticipate it. It feels good. Power. Control. She’s resisting, but her struggles are futile. This time I took extra precautions because of her strength and intelligence. Thicker ropes binding her wrists and ankles. Duct tape securing the ropes. The door of her room double-locked.
I didn’t gag her. I will when I go out. But no one can hear her. Not from this place.
Breaking her is going to be harder than the last one. But I’ll do what I must.
They demand it.
125 East Seventy-eighth Street, Apartment 640
Sloane perched at the edge of the Trumans’ elegant antique mahogany-and-damask sofa, sipping the tea that Penny’s mother had insisted on brewing. Setting down her cup, she adjusted her pen in a style she’d gotten used to—one that guarded her injury—and flipped open her notebook.
She waited patiently while Hope Truman fluttered about, arranging a plate of ladyfingers.
Ladyfingers. That brought back a slew of memories. Snack time at Penny’s, after they’d played Barbies for hours. Penny would stylize her Barbie, choosing fashionable outfits for her, then color-and style-coordinating all her accessories. Sloane would pretend her Barbie was She-ra, Princess of Power, and body parts would fly. It was lucky for Ken that he wasn’t anatomically correct.
Back then, ladyfingers had represented a treat. Now they
were Hope Truman’s way of releasing a burst of nervous energy—desperation and procrastination combined. Sloane recognized the signs. A loved one who wanted results, but was terrified of what they’d be. And after nearly a year? There was nothing to cling to but prayers, nothing to hope for but a miracle.
Sloane was supposed to be that miracle.