“Mommy, what’s going on?”

I open my eyes to find Lara straddling me, her face scrunched up in question. “Why are all the people here? Are we having a party?”

“No, baby,” I say. “It’s, um, Daddy’s work. Don’t bother the people, okay? Just play in your room.”

“Okay, Mommy,” she says, then turns her attention back to the electronic tablet that’s currently showing The Incredibles.

I glance at Jamie, who shrugs. “You don’t have a TV in the girls’ room. And I figured…”

I nod, happy to have Lara distracted today. “I fell asleep?”

She gives me a wry look. “You needed it. Don’t worry. They’re doing everything they can.”

“Is Dallas here yet?”

She nods. “I saw him and Quincy when I stepped out about twenty minutes ago. Riley, too,” she adds, referring to Riley Blade, a freelancer who’s one of Ryan’s best men and does consulting work on Lyle’s action movies. “Do you want to go out? Get an update?”

I swallow. I don’t want to leave this room. In here, with Lara and Jamie, I can pretend that everything is okay. The moment I step through that door and into what’s become the nerve center of the investigation, I’ll have to face the harsh reality that my daughter and friend are missing. That I don’t know what will happen to them.

That there isn’t a thing in the world I can do to change that. And that even Damien can’t make it better.

I don’t want to go through the door, but I know I have to. And so I draw myself up, kiss Lara’s forehead, and walk to the door. Jamie comes up beside me, and I meet her eyes. “You’re coming, too?”

She nods. “We’ll send Moira in to sit with Lara.”

I take her hand and squeeze it. Then I open the door and step out into the chaos.

Right off the bat, I see Dallas Sykes. A playboy billionaire who used to be known as The King of Fuck, he’s standing with Damien, his wife Jane beside him. Just seeing him is a relief, because I know there’s a hell of a lot more to Dallas than he shows the world. He’s the founder of Deliverance, and I have some idea of how many kids he’s helped recover. And I also know that he understands the other side. What Anne is going through, because he and Jane were kidnapped together as children.

The thought—kidnapped—makes my heart race again. Because although that’s undoubtedly what happened, we haven’t heard a thing yet from the kidnapper.

I see Riley—a total badass—standing next to Lyle. I’m not entirely sure why Lyle is here since he doesn’t actually have the martial arts skills of the characters he portrays on screen. Moral support, I assume when he sends me a reassuring smile. And I’m glad of it.

Ryan is on the phone, and from what I overhear of the conversation, he’s talking to Noah, who’s still in Austin, doing what he can from his office in Texas.

At loose ends, I pace the room, walking behind the men and women seated at the stations of computers and phones set up around the make-shift conference table. They’re all typing or talking on headphones, working hard, focused on finding my daughter and nanny.

And yet with every step, I lose a little bit of hope. All this bluster. All this activity. And still nothing. No word. No hint. No clue.

What if we never get word? What if there is never a clue? A ransom demand?

What if we never see Anne again?

Frantically, I turn around, looking for Damien, but it’s Ryan I find in front of me. He reaches for Jamie, who’s been my shadow, and brushes his hand over her hair. Then he cocks his head, just slightly, but enough to have her flashing a tiny smile at me.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she says, then squeezes Ryan’s hand before heading that direction.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, leading me across the room to the huge glass doors that allow access to the balcony and the view of the ocean. One panel is open, letting in fresh air, and we step over the threshold. It’s Monday now, and the Pacific glows in the morning light. A moment later, Quincy Radcliffe joins us, then surprises me by turning back and sliding the door closed behind us.

I look between the two men. “What?” I demand, my fear ratcheting up.

“It’s okay,” Ryan says. “We don’t have bad news. We only want to talk to you.”

“Why?” I’m still suspicious. I have a feeling I’m going to be suspicious of everything and everybody for the entire rest of my life.

“It’s just—Nikki, you and Damien, you two need to stick together. You don’t and it’s going to destroy you.” Ryan pauses, letting that sink in. “That’s what you guys are. You’re each other’s oxygen.”

My head snaps up. “You don’t think we’re together? Where Anne is concerned?”

“That’s not what he means,” Quincy says, his accent sounding thicker with the urgency in his voice.

“This is killing him,” Ryan says. “You know Damien. He’s a man who gets what he wants. He wants his daughter back. And he can’t just snap his fingers and make it happen. He’s at someone else’s mercy. He hates that.”

“And you blame him for that? I hate it, too.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Do I?” I’m being unreasonable, letting my fear morph into anger.

I force myself to take slow, deliberate breaths as I clench my hands into tight fists. I relish the sensation of my nails digging into my palms, and I say nothing until I’ve formed the words in my head. Words that make me realize how angry I am. How angry I’ve been all day, and not just about what’s happened to Anne. “He let that woman back into our lives. Not openly, which I could have handled. Surreptitiously. After reassuring me for years that she’s better, suddenly he’s sneaking around at night.”

“I know. He told us.”

I barely hear him. “We’re oxygen, you said? In that case, he’s the one who poisoned the goddamn air.”

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks, his head lowered. When he lifts it, his eyes are full of determination. “I don’t think this was Sofia’s doing.”

I cross my arms, my posture tense. “Did she pass the polygraph?”

“She did,” Quincy says. “I monitored it myself, and believe me when I say I have experience. We’re going to do it again, as well. At least two more times.”

“But that’s not the point,” Ryan says. “I don’t believe it’s in her to hurt Damien like that. Or Damien’s child. I don’t think you believe it, either. Two years ago, you told Jamie you thought she was doing better.”

“Two years ago, she was.” I remember the woman who asked permission to hold my eldest daughter. Who was kind and respectful and who apologized to me profusely. “A lot can change in two years. Did Damien tell you that she lost a baby?”

Ryan nods. “Yeah. And that’s a factor. I still don’t think it’s her. And you know she’s not the only suspect. Tell me who else it could be. Anyone we should turn our attention to.”

I make a face. “Anyone looking to make money.”

“You’re thinking ransom,” Quincy says. “Under the circumstances, who wouldn’t be? But even most kidnappings for ransom originate with someone known to the family.”

I nod, his words resonating. He’s been working with Dallas for years, and in addition to being an MI-6 agent, he watched Dallas being snatched all those years ago. As much as anyone can, Quincy Radcliffe understands what I’m going through. A victim left behind.

“Who else should we look at?” he presses. “Doesn’t matter how bloody outrageous you think it is. We have the manpower to investigate. Who’s new to your life? Who’s said something that felt off? Who has a grudge?”

I look between the two of them. “Have you asked Damien these questions?”

“We have,” Quincy answers for both of them. “He’s concerned about Marianna Kingsley, of course, and Richard Breckenridge.”

I nod. “That sounds about right.”

“And?”

I close my eyes, hating that I’d even think it, but they’re right. I have to share any suspicions. “Eric, maybe,” I say. “He used to work for me, and he’s lost the job that he left me for. He’s back, and…” I trail off with a shrug, hating that I’m even saying this.

“Anyone else?” Quincy asks me. His voice is gentle, but his words are firm. “No matter how far-fetched.”

“I don’t know.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “I don’t know. Carl Rosenfeld? He’s held a grudge for a longtime, and then suddenly one of his old employees applied for a job with me.”

“Who?” Ryan asks.

“Brian Crane. He’s a programmer. I don’t really think either of them—”

“Better we dig too deep than not deep enough,” Quincy says, and I nod. I’m not going to argue with these guys. Whatever it takes to get Anne and Bree back, I’m on board with it.

“We don’t know who’s behind this, Nikki,” Ryan says. “Or rather, we don’t know yet. But there is one thing I’m sure of.”

“What?” My voice is eager. Intense. Desperate for any scrap of hope.

“One way or another, this is connected to Damien.”

The words hit me like a punch. I realize, of course, that he means Damien’s money. But the bottom line is the same. My children are in danger because of who their father is.

“He’s right,” Quincy says. “And Nikki, I’m telling you right now that you’re going to have to find a way to come to terms with that.”

I nod slowly, numb.

I’m going to have to come to terms with that.

Yes, I am. And so, I think, is Damien.

I nod again, then head for the door, telling them I need to be alone. Except I already am alone. I pass through the living area, so full of people, many of whom were strangers before all of this. I feel shell-shocked, the walking wounded. My daughter is missing. Someone stole her. She’s being punished for who her parents are. For her mother falling for Damien. For Damien choosing me.

I see him in the kitchen. He’s holding a mug with two hands, his head bowed. I want to go to him—I almost turn that way. But I don’t. I stay on my path, moving with purpose to our bedroom. To our massive closet.

There’s a ladder like the kind in libraries, and I climb it, then find the old suitcase I’d shoved up there. I pull it down, then open it up to get to the leather case I’d hidden inside. I shouldn’t have kept the case—I know that. I should have gotten rid of it. I’d meant to so many times, but each time I thought about it, I pulled it back. Because if the case is in the house and I don’t use it, that means I’m strong.

Today, I’m not strong. Today, I’m weak.

Today, I’m going to take what I need.

The case is old, but the leather is polished to a sheen. I unzip it, remembering the horror when Sofia gave it to me. Remembering her taunts. But even then, the instruments were beautiful. Gleaming antique scalpels, lovingly tended, their blades as sharp as possible.

I want this.

This is why I’ve saved them. Because I knew—somehow, I just knew—that the day would come when I’d need them. When I’d have to cut to survive. When that pain would be the only rope that would get me through because Damien—oh, dear God—because Damien would be lost, too.

Slowly, I choose one of the scalpels. I lift it out from the indention into which it fits. I feel the comforting weight in my hand and I extend my arm.

Then reason grabs me. Not my arm. They’ll see.

I stand up, then put the case on the island that takes up the middle of my closet. My fingers fumble for the button of my jeans, and I start to shimmy out of them. The denim is tight around my thighs, and I’m pushing the material down when I see my reflection in the full-length mirror.

I’m looking up, meeting my own eyes. And for a moment, I just stare.

Then I gasp, clamping my hand over my mouth before the gasp turns into a yell.

No.

No, no, no.

I don’t have to do this.

I have the strength to fight this. Damien may be lost with me right now, but he’s given me enough strength over the years. I’m not surrendering. I’m not doing this.

Wildly, I tug the jeans back up, then fasten them. I put the scalpel back in the case, and I’m about to shove the case into the little suitcase when my phone rings, so I toss the case into my underwear drawer, then pull my phone out from the pocket of my jeans, where it’s been all day, a lifeline to Anne.

I race out of the closet and run through the room and into the hall. I’m breathless when I burst into the main living area just as the phone shrieks out a second ring. I look around for Damien, but I don’t see him anywhere.

“The phone,” I say stupidly as Ryan holds up his hand, not letting me answer just yet. He signals to his team—at all the men and women who will be monitoring this call. Tracing it if they can. My phone. Damien’s phone. The house phone. Every phone held by every staff member—Gregory, the cleaning staff, the guards, the grounds folk. Every one of their calls routed through the control center, too.

“Ryan...” My finger hovers, desperate to answer. I don’t recognize the number, but today that doesn’t matter. I have to answer. I have to know. “Ryan. Please.”

Denise—blonde and efficient—raises a hand in signal.

“Go,” Ryan tells me, and I answer the call. “Hello? Hello?”

“Nikki?”

It’s Bree. Her voice frantic. Hysterical.

“Bree?” I whisper as my knees go out.

The world turns gray and I start to fall. And for the first time in a long time, it isn’t Damien who’s there to catch me.