I wake to the sun streaming in through the windows, my youngest daughter snuggled between my back and Damien’s chest, and the oldest curled up at our feet, where she so often ends up when she sleeps in our bed.

For the first time in what seems like an eternity, I feel refreshed, and I smile as I roll over, then see Damien smiling right back at me.

“She’s fine,” he says, as if answering a question, though I hadn’t said a word.

I run my hand over her tangled yellow locks and nod. “Yes,” I say. “She is.”

It turns out that she’d been away from the kidnapper’s grasp for most of yesterday. At just after eight in the morning, she’d been left at one of the city’s many drop-in childcare facilities. He’d said his name was Nicholas Starkey, and that he would need to leave her all day in order to attend a series of business meetings.

The facility has security cameras, but they’d walked up, so there was no identifying vehicle in the parking lot. He wore a ball cap, which hid most of his face. The security cameras revealed a mustache and beard, but those were likely stage makeup. The angle of the cameras provided a particularly useless view.

The facility reported that Anne seemed groggy at first—something we later confirmed as the lingering effect of the Versed. She perked up later, but called frequently for her mommy, daddy, and sister.

Eventually, closing time arrived, with no bearded man there to pick her up. That was when they checked the paperwork and called the number. Our number. Ryan answered, and we all raced to get her.

The facility will be receiving a very large donation later today.

Our pediatrician had met us at the facility and confirmed that she was absolutely fine, and there were no lingering effects from the Versed. As far as we can tell, Anne remembers nothing. Well, nothing except Nemo.

Now, she stirs in her sleep, and I reach over her for Damien. He glances down, relief so obvious he practically glows with it. But when he looks up at me, his eyes are haunted.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I shake my head. “I’m the one who cut.”

“And I’m the reason.”

I prop myself up on my elbow. “You should have told me. Whatever that tracking thing you did, you should have told me the truth.” But then I shake my head and sigh with frustration. “But maybe … oh, hell. I don’t know. He let her go. Whatever you did, it didn’t make him keep her or harm her. So I don’t know.”

“I wanted—want—to kill the son-of-a-bitch. I wanted to find him for you. To destroy him for us. For Anne. And I justified doing whatever it took to find him. It was a risk I shouldn’t have taken.” He looks down, to where my leg is hidden under the covers. “Anne may be fine, but you’re not. You cut because of me. All this time, and I’m the reason you took a blade to your skin.”

“Don’t,” I say. “I did this. Not you. You don’t blame me for my weaknesses. It really doesn’t make sense to blame yourself.”

“Oh, I think it does.”

“Damien. Don’t.”

I think he’s going to argue, but then he nods. “You’re amazing.”

I laugh without much humor. “Apparently I’m a mess.”

“An amazing mess.”

Now, I roll my eyes. “What I am, is yours. Always. No matter what.”

“And thank God for that.”

He leans over to kiss me, then gets a little fist in his face when Anne stretches. We both laugh, which wakes her up, which makes us laugh some more.

“Breakfast,” he says, and I nod in agreement.

I expect to find the house empty, but Ryan and Quincy are still there. Dallas had to fly back to New York, and Ryan sent his staff home to their beds. Evelyn and Ollie both left word that they’d be by later, Jamie is still asleep in one of the guest rooms, and Sofia went back to her hotel. The last of which makes me happier than I want to admit.

“We need to tell Bree it’s over,” I say, but Damien’s face tightens. “What?” I press. “You don’t still think she’s involved?”

“She was released. The kidnapper knew her schedule. Let’s just say the jury’s still out.”

“I don’t believe it,” I say. “I trust her.” But do I? If I really trusted her, wouldn’t I have pressed Damien harder to let her go?

Damien, I notice, is frowning, too.

“What is it?” I ask.

He shakes his head, then tells me to get the girls dressed while he takes care of breakfast.

I do, herding them to their room and helping them into their clothes, and giving Anne so many hugs and tickles that it’s a wonder she’s not running from me.

When I come back, I find out that my husband’s been cheating on me, and I put my hands on my hips and stare him down.

He and Ryan are standing behind Quincy at one of the computers, and he lifts his hands in surrender. “I only enlisted Gregory to cook breakfast because I had a flash of brilliance.”

I cock my head. “Only a flash, Mr. Stark? You’re slipping.” But I tell the girls to go in the kitchen and Mr. G will feed them. Since Gregory spoils them rotten, I hear no complaints as they scamper that direction.

“Okay. Tell.”

“Your husband’s not exaggerating,” Quincy says, focusing intently on his computer screen even though he’s speaking to me. “The bastard’s a bloody genius. Even if he was a little slow on the uptake.”

“Weren’t we all?” Damien says. “And we may be wrong.”

“We’re not,” Ryan says, then grins at Damien. “And thanks to you, we’ll be able to prove it.”

“Prove what?” Jamie asks, walking into the room in a pair of pajamas that were obviously bought for Ryan. She rubs sleep out of her eyes as she looks at me. “What did I miss?”

“No idea, and I’ve been standing right here.”

“I started thinking more about Bree,” Damien tells me. “About the kidnapper knowing her schedule.” He points to the computer. “Take a look.”

Quincy waves us over, and Jamie and I get closer so we can both see his screen. “Know what this is?”

Jamie and I exchange a shrug. “A guy standing on a sidewalk.”

“Look closer.” He manipulates the mouse and zooms in. It’s Rory, no doubt about it. Then he pulls back, and the Moviehouse behind him comes into focus.

“That’s the theater on Fairfax,” I say. “The one where he was meeting Bree for Casablanca.”

“Oh, yes it is,” Quincy says. “And I’m quite fascinated by the extremely large number of wireless security cameras in that particular area. I believe I caught him from no less than eighteen different setups.”

“Is that bad?” I ask.

“Actually, it’s good. Here’s what’s truly interesting.” He taps more keys, the tape scrolls forward, and Rory’s walking away from the theater.

“Um, so?” Jamie sounds as confused as I feel.

“Check the time stamp. It’s two minutes until the show starts. You’re expecting a date. Worried. And you don’t give her two extra minutes?”

I’m not sure that’s a smoking gun, but I nod, urging him to continue.

“Got this from a traffic cam about three blocks from your daughter’s art class. See? We can make out the license plate. Jerrol and Elsbeth Colgate.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Not surprised as they live in Hawaii,” Ryan says. “But they visit their children in Big Bear, Santa Barbara, and Long Beach three or four times a year. So they keep a car garaged.”

“I made an inquiry based on Damien’s theory,” Quincy says, “and learned that they do significant business with Franklin & Youngman.”

I start to shake my head, then remember the name. “Financial advisors.”

“No way,” Jamie says. “Is that where Rory works?”

“It is,” Damien says.

“Oh, God.” I stumble into the chair next to Quincy, then look up at Damien. “And Bree?”

“I think he targeted her because she was our nanny.”

I remember what Ryan said at the Foundation brunch. That Rory looked like a guy who hadn’t grown up. A guy, I’m assuming, who expected a Stark grant to be his golden ticket. And when he didn’t make it big right off the bat, he decided to take a shortcut.

“That’s the theory,” Damien says, when I spell it all out for him.

“But that’s not proof. If we want to nail this guy, there has to be proof.”

All three men look at each other, and then Ryan speaks. “Yeah, well, that’s where some kickass Stark tech comes into play.”

“The tracker? But I thought the rain messed that up.”

“Just the exterior tracking,” Damien says. “With luck, he’ll have opened the cases.”

“With more luck, he hasn’t already skipped town,” Quincy says.

“He’s here.” Damien’s face is hard as stone. “Right now, I’m feeling very, very lucky.”