Thin Ice Page 8

  She continued toward the refrigerator. Nothing like that would be waiting for her tonight. But perhaps Neven had left her a little treat, as he sometimes did when he was gone for the evening. A small act of kindness, yes—but surely a sign his heart was good, deep inside, in spite of all he’d been through. As for his eruptions of anger . . . who could blame him? He had reasons to be cross.

  And she was one of them.

  Pain that went deeper than bone and muscle ricocheted down her arm and through her body as she reached for the freezer door. But that was nothing new. Pain was a daily burden now—of body and spirit and heart.

  With a shuddering sigh, she inspected the stack of frozen dinners, labeled by day. Today was Wednesday, wasn’t it? Yes, it must be. That was the dinner on top, and Neven was very organized.

  Balancing herself on the walker, she leaned forward and pulled it out. The words on the label were gibberish, but she recognized the photo. Salisbury steak. That was one of the tastier meals, even if no prayer had been said over the butchering. But halal was forgotten these days, like so much else. Still, it was more appetizing than the food in the homeless shelters that had been her lot until Neven rescued her. She had her own room here too, instead of a cot among many.

  It was a better life than before.

  Wasn’t it?

  Yes. Of course it was.

  Dinner in hand, she crossed to the microwave and slid her food inside. As the turntable began to rotate, she shuffled to the other side of the small kitchen to retrieve a knife and fork.

  An apple turnover, covered with plastic wrap, was on the counter above the utensil drawer, her name written on a piece of paper beside it.

  Mist clouded her vision, and she reached out to touch the plate. It wasn’t jabukovača; apparently no one in this country had ever heard of the beloved apple-stuffed phyllo dough of her youth. But Neven had tried, bless him.

  See? He was a good boy, despite his faults. She should be grateful he’d taken her in—even if her life was much calmer when he was away from the apartment, like tonight.

  The microwave pinged, and she removed a knife and fork from the drawer. Step by painful step, she retrieved her dinner, placed the apple dessert beside the microwave container, and lowered herself into the chair.

  Picking up her fork, she stared down at the patty of meat, the slices of carrot, the pasty mound of mashed potatoes. It was sustenance, yes—but nothing like the dinners in the old days, when laughter rang at her table and food was plentiful and family and friends knew no fear.

  A sob caught in her throat, and she groped for a paper napkin from the holder in the center of the table.

  Ah, Mihad, how I miss you and those happy days when the world stretched before us with such promise! My heart pines for your stories about the patients who came from far away to benefit from your gift of healing . . . for our evening strolls in the park where happy music always played . . . for the beautiful home you built and furnished for me because you said a lady deserved the best.

  But most of all, I miss your gentle touch, and the tender way you called me “pile moje.”

  My wonderful Mihad—you were my dear one too.

  A tear leaked out of her eye, and she wiped it away as the food cooled in front of her, the gnawing hunger that had awakened her from her nap subsiding to a dull ache.

  But she had to eat. The food might be better since she’d moved in with Neven, but it wasn’t plentiful. Skipping meals wasn’t smart.

  She picked up her fork as another tear slipped down her cheek. Thinking about the past wasn’t going to change anything. That life was gone. As dead as Mihad. And Daris. And beautiful Sonja.

  So much death.

  The yearning for escape swept over her, like it always did when she thought of the old days—and of all she’d lost. She needed oblivion. A place where life’s hard edges softened. Where pain faded.

  There was no escape, though. Neven had seen to that—and he was right. Running away was for cowards. She needed to be strong. To learn to survive without a crutch.

  Except it was so very hard.

  Oh, my Mihad, if only you were here!

  A tear dropped onto her food. Another. She closed her eyes to stem the tide. Wiped her nose. Drew a quivering breath.

  Eat, Mevlida. You must eat.

  Gripping her fork, she opened her eyes . . . and gasped.

  Neven stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the door frame, watching her with an expression of . . . pleasure?

  Shock rippled through her.

  No.

  Surely she was wrong.

  No one smiled at another’s tears.

  She blinked, and when she looked again, the small smile and the odd glitter in his eyes were gone.

  She must have imagined his reaction.

  Nevertheless, a cold cloak of foreboding dropped over her shoulders.

  The silence lengthened, and she searched for words. “You no . . . work?”

  He pushed off from the door and strolled closer. “No. I’m only filling in at night a few times a week while the other guy recovers. I told you that already.”

  Had he? It was possible. Her memory wasn’t what it once was.

  “I forget.”

  “You forget a lot.”

  Not enough, though.

  Not nearly enough.

  “I old.”

  “Yes, you are.” He moved to the refrigerator and withdrew a beer, counting the cans as he always did.

  She summoned up a smile. “You eat?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tugging the apple turnover closer, she dipped her head toward the plate. “Tank you, Neven.”

  With a muttered oath, he slammed the beer on the counter.

  Her hand jerked, and her fork clattered to the floor.

  How could she have made such a stupid mistake?

  He stalked across the room to loom over her. “That is not my name. I’m Nathan. Nathan! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  She cowered, pulling herself into a protective tuck. Not that he would hurt her physically. That didn’t happen very often. But the flush on his face, the anger in his eyes, the feeling of barely leashed violence—they always sent a rush of fear through her.

  Just like the fear from all those years ago.

  “I sorry.” She whispered the words.

  “That’s one of my rules, old woman.” Fury nipped at his words. “How many others have you forgotten?”

  His angry words muddled into an incomprehensible jumble in her mind. Even after all these years, the language was so hard to understand.

  He leaned close. Into her face. “What’s my name?”

  “Natan.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Natan.”

  He glared at her, his face inches from hers. “You remember that. I worked very hard to become an American. To erase my past. To get rid of my accent. You may still be living in the old country and using the old language, but I want no reminders of that life. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Not all of it, but enough.

  After a moment, he straightened up. “Finish your dinner.”

  She leaned down, fingers of one hand gripped around the edge of the table for balance, and fumbled on the floor for her fork.

  When she retrieved it, his gaze flicked to her trembling hands, and that odd light came back into his eyes. “Eat.”

  Bending to her food, she scooped up a forkful of potatoes. Forced herself to swallow them. Tried not to gag.

  He retrieved his beer and stood over her, watching in silence as she choked down her meal.

  At last he sat at the table, picked up the apple turnover, and took a big bite. “No treat for you today. Mistakes must be punished.”

  She said nothing as he finished it off, grateful he’d taken it. The food tasted like cardboard anyway. All she wanted to do was return to her room, fall into the nothingness of sleep . . . and pretend that tomorrow would be a better day.

&
nbsp; Because that was the only way she could face another dawn.

  6

  Christy positioned the cursor over the download prompt, tightened her fingers around the can of soda, and clicked the mouse.

  A few seconds later, the Quantico-enhanced image of Ginny that Lance had sent to her home email filled the screen.

  She cringed.

  This was much harder to look at than the small version at the bottom of the kidnapper’s last note.

  Closing her eyes, she coaxed her lungs to inflate. Deflate. Inflate. She’d promised Lance she’d study it as soon as she got home. And she would—in a minute. What choice did she have? Since none of the fingerprints on the latest missive had turned up anything in the database, and Quantico’s analysis hadn’t extracted any clues from the photo, she was their last hope. If she didn’t spot a helpful detail, they were back to square one.

  The can crinkled beneath her fingers, and she loosened her grip, forcing herself to look at the screen again.

  Unfortunately, while the lab had managed to clean up the image slightly, the clarity had degraded in the enlargement. Everything might be bigger, but it was also more blurry. In terms of searching for clues, a smaller version of the enhanced photo might be more helpful.

  But after all the effort the lab had expended, she’d start with this.

  Beginning at the top, she worked her way down inch by inch—praying she’d find some detail, however small, that might help the investigation.

  By the time she got to her sister’s bound hands near the bottom, though, all she had to show for her efforts was a growing sense of despair.

  Her gaze lingered on Ginny’s hands. Christy might have been the figure skater in the family, but her sister had always had more graceful, expressive fingers. And she’d always played up that asset with bright nail polish—not that it stayed on long in the woods. Despite frequent touch-ups, Ginny had difficulty maintaining a manicure. Chips seemed to be . . .

  Wait.

  She leaned close and squinted at the blow-up.

  Was that . . . ?

  Yes.

  There were remnants of polish on Ginny’s fingernails.

  Christy frowned.

  How could that be? No manicure lasted two months.

  Unless . . .

  Had the kidnapper taken this shot soon after the kidnapping?

  She rose, pulled her phone from the charger on the kitchen counter, and scrolled down to Lance’s cell number. Maybe her discovery wasn’t critical. Maybe it could wait until morning. But she couldn’t—and he’d said to call him anytime.

  He answered on the third ring, a hum of voices and laughter in the background. “Christy . . . what’s up?”

  Great. She was probably intruding on some social engagement. He might even be on a date.

  Her spirits bottomed out.

  “You sound occupied. I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

  “You’re not. I’m just having dinner with my brother. Let me find a quieter spot.”

  His brother.

  One piece of positive news, anyway.

  Her spirits took an uptick as she waited for him to resume the conversation.

  He was back on the line in less than half a minute. “Sorry about that. There was a large birthday party next to us, and they were in a very celebratory mood. Is this better?”

  “Much. Anyway, I’ve been looking at the picture you sent of Ginny, and I saw something that seems odd.”

  “What?” His tone morphed from friendly to focused in a heartbeat.

  “She’s wearing nail polish. Or the remnants of it.”

  Dead silence.

  “Lance?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.” He sounded puzzled. “Tell me why this is important.”

  Right. He was a single guy. How much would he know about nail polish?

  She explained the issue.

  “I get it now. That’s a very astute observation.”

  A surge of warmth boosted her spirits another notch. “But what does it mean?”

  “He might have taken the photo early on. The fresh injuries would support that. While I have you on the phone, why don’t you take another look at the picture in light of this discovery? See if there’s any other indication it might be an older shot.”

  Christy walked back to the table and dropped into her chair. Once more she scrutinized the screen inch by inch.

  A second shock wave passed over her as she stared at Ginny’s hair and did some quick math.

  “I found something else. Ginny’s natural hair is light brown. She’s been dying it blonde for years. About a week before the fire, she had a touch-up. After two months of captivity, brown roots should be visible. This isn’t the clearest picture, so I could be wrong—but I’m not seeing any roots at all. This appears to be a fresh dye job.”

  “One more piece of evidence to suggest the photo was taken not long after the abduction.” A couple of seconds ticked by. “I’ll tell you what. Let me think about this and run it by my colleagues tomorrow. I’ll also ask the lab to home in on the hairline and see if they can confirm what you think you’re seeing.”

  A tingle of unease slithered through her nerve endings. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this, Lance. If she was okay, why wouldn’t he take the picture now?”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. He could have a lot of reasons. This guy has been throwing you curves from the beginning. Using an old picture could be another ploy to unnerve you.”

  “If it is, it’s working.”

  “But if it’s not, it’s a mistake. It means he didn’t realize how much information was in that photo. And if he made one mistake, he can—and probably will—make others. That will work to our advantage.”

  “I don’t see how this one does.”

  “No piece of information is wasted in an investigation like this. And speaking of information, a colleague and I are working through your lists. Yours is very short . . . and I don’t see many friends listed.”

  “I don’t have many—and none from childhood. Skating and school took up every minute of my waking hours. In college, I was on a fast track to catch up. I only started making friends after I entered the workforce . . . and I choose them carefully.”

  “Not a bad strategy. I also don’t see any male names on the friend side.”

  She played with the mouse. Was his implied question prompted by personal—or professional—interest?

  Both, she hoped.

  “The men I associate with are nothing more than acquaintances.”

  “Any who might be interested in being more than that?”

  An image of Bob formed in her mind. Her contact with him had been so limited on the job that she hadn’t bothered to put him on the co-worker list—but he had asked her out.

  “There is one guy at work who’s been trying to get me to agree to a date, but I finally convinced him I wasn’t interested. He seemed disappointed but took it in stride.”

  “You didn’t put his name on the list.”

  “I hardly know him.”

  “We should at least run some background on him.”

  She bit her lip. “I hate to cause him any trouble. He got divorced not long ago, and I think he’s having a hard time adjusting. I suspect the poor guy is just lonely.”

  “He’ll never know we ran a background check—unless we find some negative information. What’s his name?”

  “Bob Harris. I don’t have an address, but I know he lives close to work.”

  “Got it. I’ll let you know if we find anything as we check out the people on your lists. In the meantime, keep hanging in there.”

  She tightened her grip on the phone. It would be far easier to do that if he was there to give her a hug. Even a fake one, like yesterday’s, would do.

  But wishful thinking wouldn’t make it happen.

  She took a steadying breath. “I will. Now I’ll let you get back to dinner with your brother.”

  There was a brief hesitation bef
ore he responded. “Okay. But call me if anything comes up.”

  “I will. Enjoy your meal.”

  She pressed the end button, staring at the photo of Ginny on her computer screen as she leaned back in her chair.

  The old photo.

  Lance hadn’t offered any theories—beyond unnerving her— as to why the kidnapper might have taken it early on.

  But she could think of one that made her sick to her stomach.

  And as she shut down her computer, she had a feeling even a hug from a certain handsome FBI agent wouldn’t be enough to chase away the new anxiety that was creeping into her bones.

  “You aren’t going to bail on me again, are you?” Mac skewered him with a don’t-even-think-about-it look as Lance slid back into the corner booth that gave them both a clear view into the restaurant.

  “Nope.” He inventoried the plate of toasted ravioli between them and took two. “I see you put a dent in these during my brief absence.”

  “I was hungry. Who’s Christy?”

  Lance dipped the ravioli in marinara sauce and took a bite. “These are great. How come the rest of the world doesn’t know about them?”

  “They were invented here. So was the ice-cream cone, at the 1904 World’s Fair. You can tuck that in your trivia file. Who’s Christy?”

  He should have known Mac wasn’t going to let that rest. Too bad he hadn’t answered her call with his usual clipped, official “McGregor.”

  A blob of sauce fell onto the table, and he wiped it up with his napkin. “A professional acquaintance.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “‘Christy . . . . aaaahhh.’” Mac did an exaggerated replay of his greeting.

  No way had he sounded that . . . smitten.

  Had he?

  Mac supplied the answer. “If your tone had been any warmer, you’d have melted that butter.” He gestured toward two pats on a plate beside the basket of bread.

  “Let’s not get carried away.”

  “I’m not the one who seems to be getting carried away.” Mac paused while the server deposited their plates of pasta, but he didn’t let that minor diversion deter him. “Is she another agent?”