Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

“With a rusty razor,” D.D. replied dryly. “But, turns out Neil gets the last laugh—the New Hampshire cops, some sheriff’s department, has picked up the ball and is now running with it.”

“The GPS beacon?” Tessa asked hopefully.

“They found only the device. Looks to them like the kidnappers must’ve discovered the GPS capabilities of the jacket, so they pulled over at some abandoned diner, cut out that piece of the coat and dumped it in the woods. Tire tracks show the vehicle resuming a northern route.”

Tessa frowned, tried to picture a map of New Hampshire in her head. “They were already three hours north of Boston. How much more north is there?”

“Two hours to Canada. But also twenty minutes from the Maine border, so possibly they veered east at some point, which would really place them in the middle of nowhere. Basically we’re looking at hundreds of square miles of wild mountains, abandoned campsites and boarded-up summer homes. But other than that…”

“Crap,” Tessa said, chewing her bottom lip. “Any word?”

“No. FBI brought with them a Behavioral Analysis Unit agent whose specialty is missing persons. According to her, if this is a ransom case, we should hear by end of day or things aren’t looking good.”

“It’s not kidnapping for ransom. It’s something…more personal.”

“The FBI expert has a theory about that, too,” D.D. supplied.

“Which is?”

“In cases of retribution, people have a tendency to think in terms of an eye for an eye. They want to dish out as much harm as they feel they sustained. Under this theory, a suspect who felt his person or reputation was damaged by Justin would seek revenge against only Justin.”

“Except,” Tessa said slowly, “it wasn’t just Justin who was attacked. They also abducted his wife and daughter.”

“Meaning if this isn’t a kidnapping-for-ransom case, then whoever orchestrated the kidnapping feels Justin Denbe harmed his entire family, maybe cost him his own wife and child.”

“That doesn’t sound like business anymore,” Tessa agreed. “That definitely sounds personal.”

“Food for thought,” D.D. agreed. There was a pause. “So, given that the feds are now here and working their magic…”

“Last insider’s call regarding this case you’re going to get to make for a bit?” Tessa guessed. Which begged the question of why her one-time nemesis had been so considerate as to use that call on her.

As if reading her mind, D.D. said, “Speaking for the entire Boston squad, we don’t really care who saves the Denbes. We just want to hear that they’ve been located safe and sound. But if the family happens to be rescued by a local investigator versus, say, the very irritating feds who just commandeered our crime scene…well, all the better in our petty little world.”

Having said her piece, D.D. disconnected. Tessa stood in the parking lot another moment, considering the detective’s update. What if money had nothing to do with the Denbes’ kidnapping? What if, as the FBI expert suggested, it wasn’t a professionally motivated crime, but a personally motivated crime?

Not a matter of ransom, but retribution.

Tessa checked her watch, skimming through the list of favorite contacts she’d gleaned from the Denbes’ phones. Justin’s right-hand man had claimed to know very little about his boss’s personal life. But what about a member from Libby Denbe’s inner circle? Sister, best friend, close confidant?

Tessa Leoni, former state trooper, current investigator extraordinaire, selected her next target.

Chapter 13

HOW DO YOU KNOW when you’ve fallen out of love?

There are entire songs, poems and greeting cards dedicated to the notion of falling in love. The power of the first glance across a crowded room. That moment right before the first kiss, when you’re still wondering will he or won’t he, while angling up your head in centuries-old invite.

The first giddy days, weeks, when you are consumed by thoughts of him. His touch, his taste, his feel. You invest in better lingerie, take more time with your hair, pick out a new form-fitting sweater because you can imagine his hands following the same lines as the soft knit and you want, more than anything, to invite those hands anywhere.

When the phone rings, you snatch it up in hopes of hearing his voice. When your lunch break arrives, you hastily calculate if you can make it to his office and back before the hour’s up. Wearing a trench coat and nothing else.

Planned dinners out become hastily scrambled eggs eaten out of bowls in the middle of his king-size bed, because your new sweater worked its magic and neither of you made it back out the door. And now he lounges around in his boxers and you lounge around in his button-up oxford and you think to yourself, admiring the hard expanse of his bare chest, the rippling muscles of his upper arms, my God, how did I get so lucky?

Then, his eyes darken, he reaches for you and you don’t think of anything else again.

I knew when I fell in love with Justin. Felt it like the proverbial lightning bolt.

And I thought, That Day, confronting him with the evidence, watching his face pale, then set, that I would feel my love for him die an equally thunderous death. Certainly, I caught my breath. Felt my stomach churn with growing nausea.

As he looked me in the eye and quietly said, “Yes, I’ve been sleeping with her…”

I yelled at him. Threw whatever was closest at hand. Raged and screamed with growing levels of hysteria. Ashlyn came racing down the hall to our room, but Justin turned and, in the sharpest voice I’d ever heard, ordered her back to her room right now. She literally spun around on one toe and went running for the sanctuary of her iPod.

He told me to calm down. I remember that.

I believe that’s when I went after him with the bedside lamp. He caught it, grabbed it with those strong arms I used to love and twisted me around until I was caught in his embrace, my back to his front, my arms locked by my sides where I could no longer hurt him. He held me. And he whispered, softly against the top of my head, that he was sorry. So sorry. So really, really sorry. I felt drops of moisture against my hair. My husband, moved to tears.

The fight left me.

I sagged against him.

He held me up. Supported me in his embrace, and for a while, we stood together, both of us breathing hard, our tears comingling. I cried for the loss of my marriage. For the trust I’d had in this man, and for the terrible, terrible feeling of not just betrayal, but failure. That I had loved my husband with my entire being, and it still hadn’t been enough.

And Justin? Those drops of moisture against the top of my head? Tears of shame? Pain at having caused me pain? Or simply regret at finally being caught?

I hated him then. With every fiber of my being.

But I don’t think I fell out of love with him. I only wished that I could.

Afterward, I kicked him out of the house. He didn’t argue, just quietly packed his bag. I told him not to come back. I told him he was a terrible man and he’d hurt me too much, and what kind of man ripped apart his own family, and what kind of father abandoned his own daughter? And then, for a while, I said things that didn’t even make sense but simply poured out, a raging flow of hurt and spite. He took it. Stood in front of me, holding his black duffel bag, and let me hate him.

Finally, I emptied myself of all words. We stared at each other across the silent space of our bedroom.

“I was an idiot,” he said.

I made a noise. It wasn’t kind.

“This is my fault, my mistake.”

Another noise.

“Can I call you?” he tried again. “In a few days, after you’ve caught your breath. Can we just…talk?”