Rachel Caine: Two Weeks' Notice

She didn’t want to have this discussion, not now, not here…not with the video evidence of it left behind on Joe Fideli’s cameras. She and Joe were tight, and he was trustworthy, but this was deeply personal business.

“I don’t know,” she said very evenly, although what was going on inside her was full of sharp edges and sudden drops. “Aren’t we?”

Pat shook his head, not to answer her, but just to indicate he was done with the conversation. She set her unfinished glass of scotch aside and stood up. “I’ll meet you back at the house,” she said. “We can talk there.”

He wanted to push it, she could tell, but he was just as private as she was about their relationship, whatever it was. “I’ll be up late.” He meant, Don’t go to bed without talking to me. She didn’t acknowledge that at all, just offered him a cool kiss on the cheek and left without another word.

Outside, the night air felt damp and heavy with mist. She went into Joe’s house through the back door—keypad lock, to which she had a code—and found Joe and Kylie in the kitchen finishing up the dishes. Without a word, Kylie handed her a towel, and she helped wipe down the damp china and put it away.

“So,” Joe said. “That was a short conversation.”

“Yeah.”

“Something you need to share?”

“I didn’t know this was an AA meeting, Joe.”

Kylie shot her husband a warning look. She was exactly the kind of woman Bryn would have expected to attract Joe, actually. Lovely, strong, intelligent, and sensitive. She reached over with a soapy hand and picked up the half-full wineglass sitting by the sink, which she finished off. “Cheers,” she said. “It’s not, so ignore my nosy-old-lady husband. Thanks for coming over. The kids love seeing you and Mr. French.”

“Mostly Mr. French,” Bryn said, but she smiled anyway. Right on cue, her bulldog wandered into the kitchen, panting. He flopped down next to Bryn’s feet, clearly exhausted, and gave her a piteous long-suffering groan, complete with puppy-dog eyes. “I think he’s ready to go.” She wiped the last plate and put it away.

Kylie dried her hands and hugged Bryn close, kissed her cheek, and whispered, “Be careful.”

“I will,” Bryn whispered back, then let go and hugged Joe, too. He didn’t bother warning her, and there was no cheek-smooching from him. It was like hugging a block of concrete. It always surprised her how densely muscled he was; he carried himself so casually that it was easy to miss. “See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll wear my best gun,” he said without a trace of irony.

Mr. French groaned again, heaved himself back to his feet, and followed her out to the car, where he jumped up on the passenger seat, turned around three times, and flopped down with a sigh that said, more clearly than anything, how run out he was. He didn’t even beg for the window to be down. By the time she’d driven to the end of the block and made the first turn out of Joe’s neighborhood, her dog was completely, utterly asleep. And snoring like a little old man.

Bryn rested one hand on his warm, short fur. He woke up long enough to twist around and give her fingers a sleepy lick, then fell right back to sleep. “Everything’s all right, dog,” she told him. He snored. “We’re going to be okay. I promise.”

She wasn’t talking to the dog, of course, not really. Apart from being asleep, Mr. French had total faith in her ability to make everything right. In his doggy universe, that was her job—to make him happy and safe, to keep the food and water coming, and to toss the ball.

Simple.

There were times Bryn ached to have that simplicity for herself, though she knew full well she’d hate it if it came. Life was never simple, and it wasn’t meant to be.

She took the long way home. She stopped at the beach to walk on the sand, shoes off, breathing in the mist and listening to the timeless, steady hiss of the surf. She wasn’t alone out there, but she could pretend she was; that was what all the other shadowy figures—sometimes entwined—were doing, pretending they were invisible, locked in their own private universe. Nobody bothered her, or even spoke to her, and after ten minutes she was chilled to the bone but only a little soothed.

The drive home was uneventful until her phone rang. Bryn hit the hands-free button on her steering wheel and said, “I’m on my way,” because she knew it would be Pat, checking on her slow progress.

But the voice that came out of the speakers wasn’t Pat’s. It was her sister, Annalie’s. “Bryn?”

Bryn steered hastily to the curb, put the car in park, and said, “Annie? Annie, where are you?”

“Bryn, I need you to come get me. Please come get me.…” She sounded desperately scared and lost. “I need to see Mom. I need to get home.…” In a much softer voice, her sister said, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Sweetie, where are you?”

“I—I don’t know. I think I’m dying. Please come get me.…” Annie was crying Bryn realized with a wrench; she sounded disoriented. “A boat, I think I’m on a boat. I can’t get out. I need help. Please—” Annie sucked in a sudden breath that sounded almost like a scream—it was so drenched with alarm—and then there was a soft click, and the call died.

“No,” Bryn whispered, and fumbled for her phone in her purse. “No, no, no, Annie, no…” She checked the number: CALL BLOCKED. She dialed Pat McCallister’s number. Her mind was clear, cold, and running very, very fast. When he picked up, she said, “I need you to pull my cell phone records and trace the call I got right before this. It was Annie, Pat. Annie called me. She said she thought she was on a boat.”

He was silent for maybe a second, and then said, “I’ll have the intel ready before you get here.” She didn’t doubt for a moment that he would have someone, somewhere, who owed him enough of a favor to make it happen.

“Pat—” The line was already dead. He hadn’t said good-bye.

Mr. French, who’d been woken up by the sudden stop and the emotion radiating out of her, whined in concern and licked her arm. She leaned over and hugged him, and said, “We’re going to find her, baby. We’re going to find my sister.”

He barked as if he agreed and settled down in the seat as she put the car in gear and headed home with absolute disregard for speed limits. God, if he’s decided she’s of no further value to him …Mercer was not a nice man. If he decided that Annie wasn’t useful, he’d dump her like a bad date. In Annie’s case, that meant no more shots, and no more shots of Returné meant a slow, agonizing, and gruesome death. She could already be far along the path.

He’s luring you, the cooler part of her brain warned her. That wasn’t just Annie being resourceful and getting her hands on a cell phone. He wanted her to call. He wants you to go rushing in to save her.

Maybe. But honestly, Bryn couldn’t see how else to play it. Annalie was her sister, and she’d been innocent in all this, a victim. There was no way Bryn could play it safe if there was even the remotest chance that Annie could be rescued and out of Mercer’s hands.

She also knew what Pat was going to say. She just didn’t want to hear it.

The first words McCallister said to her as she and Mr. French rushed inside the mansion’s big entry hall were “This way.”

“Do you have the information?” Bryn asked, dumping everything but her phone next to the door.

“Yes. Come with me.” He’d taken off his suit jacket and tie, and his pale blue shirt was wrinkled, the first two buttons opened—he looked unexpectedly vulnerable to her, somehow. She was so used to seeing him completely together . As she followed him, he said, “Bryn, you have to expect that this may be—”