Jeff Abbott: Adrenaline

I studied the bottom of my whisky glass.

“We will help you. I swear to you, Sam. Please say yes. Here.” She slipped me a DVD. “Security tape from the clinic Lucy said she had the baby at. You will see a tall, dark woman leaving Lucy’s room, carrying a baby, the day after your child was born.”

I didn’t dare to breathe.

“We can help you ID this woman. Pick up the thread.”

Find the line, I thought, just as I had raced to find it in the parkour run on that long-ago morning in London, the last normal morning of my life. Find the line.

To have a life again, I could take this secret life, for a while, to find my son. I felt the old tickle of adrenaline begin again, along my spine, curling into my brain.

I stood, turned to face the small scattering of customers in the Bluecut. I jumped, without a wobble, onto the fine leather bar stool and cleared my throat. The elegant piano player stopped. The sparse but cool midday crowd looked up at me, startled.

I put on my host’s smile and held my whisky glass up in a toast. “Ladies and gentlemen, I just acquired this bar. The drinks are on the house.”