Gretch sipped the enormous iced tea she’d bought on the way over. She’d give her right arm for a glass of wine instead. For the second time she’d shared her most gut-wrenching childhood scars so Eve would realize how returning to her husband would affect her girls. Close to an hour had passed, comforting Eve, listening to her fears, trying to reason with her, and it had only left them at an impasse.

“I can’t have him hurting my parents. Next he’ll go after my friends.” Eve paced, fists clenched, red blotches staining her cheeks. “He can do so much damage when he wants.”

“Then we apply for a restraining order.” Or get Jace Quinn to pay him a visit.

“He won’t quit, don’t you see? He can’t live without us…” She slumped back in her chair, her face puffy from crying and sleeplessness, her voice hoarse. Gretch ached for her.

“I know he won’t do it again,” Eve said. “This time it’ll be different. I have to go back, Gretch.”

“That’s not the solution. For any of you. Please, listen.”

“I read some books in there.” She jerked her head to where the study was. “One was on forgiveness. I can learn to forgive what he did to us.”

Reading volumes of books had not, in any way, helped Gretch. In fact, she’d dented quite a few walls in her apartment throwing hardbacks that encouraged self-love and letting go. “He’s not going to stop, Eve,” she said quietly, with her trainer intensity.

The woman squeezed her hand. “My daughters won’t suffer like you did. I’m sorry for all you went through, but in the end, you’re the most put-together woman I know.”

Gretch pressed her lips against the scream. How ironic that the outer shell she worked so hard to maintain was the reason behind her failure to help Eve. If only she could confess to this woman that put-together was acting the opposite of how she felt—a freak who found physical contact with men repulsive. The same future Eve’s daughters faced. She opened her mouth to spill her final secret, but self-preservation kept the words buried deep inside. “I don’t know what else to say,” she whispered instead. Here was her chance to save two girls from the same fate. If only Eve would listen!

Tears welled, and Gretch kneaded her temples. Jesus. She never cried. Had never leaked a single tear throughout her stepfathers’ abuses and protests of innocence. Had stared down her mother’s expressions of distaste and disbelief, her accusations that it was merely Gretch’s attention-seeking behavior.

Amy raced in, her pounding steps startling them. The girl paused just inside the room, staring at Gretch’s weenie crying-fest.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Eve said. “We’re telling sad stories. What is it?”

“My friend Phillip got kidnapped! It’s on TV.” She pointed toward the living room, her eyes wide with fear. Gretch hurried after Eve and Amy. The room teemed with residents and their kids, all glued to the breaking news segment.

“…naturally, we cannot show pictures or list the names of the five young boys,” the newscaster said to the camera. “But earlier this evening Sandra Mayfair FaceTimed us with how she heard about the kidnapping.” A video followed of a frantic woman with frizzy blond hair explaining the two-way communication with her son via his high-tech watch.

“How do you know this is Phillip’s mom, honey?” Eve asked after a minute.

“I’ve seen her at school. Phillip says she talks to Principal Walker a lot about the bullies.”

The video of the mother cut to a live shot of swirling blue police lights, and a swarm of uniformed officers outside a brightly lit storefront with large red letters. Individual Lessons. Group Lessons. 555-6928. All Martial Arts Available: Karate, Judo, Hapkido.

Gretch’s legs numbed. Beyond the words cluttering the window, red mats lined the dojo floor. Nausea churned. “My God…”

This couldn’t be real. Sean was supposed to be at her place in an hour. Dinner. Trading barbs. Kissing. At some point Gretch would dredge up the courage to invite his hands to roam her body, and she’d explore whether a sexy misfit could help her feel normal.

The camera panned the empty storefront again. “Why are they filming there?” she said, her voice shrill. “The place is empty.”

As if hearing her, the newscaster said, “According to Sandra Mayfair, the instructor was forced into a car while the children were led into the gym bathroom. This is where they’re being held against their will right now, and it’s when her son activated his high-tech watch to alert his mother. For more on this special watch and its sophisticated technology, Paul Hightower joins us—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Eve,” Gretch blurted, and raced toward the foyer. Hank was streaming the scene on his iPad.

“Your phone’s been ringing and ringing,” he said, nodding to where she’d stashed her purse behind his desk. Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” jingled within merrily.

She swallowed convulsively and dug out the phone. Jace’s name was emblazoned on her screen. “Jace?”

“Where are you?” His voice was low and curt.

“At a women’s shelter. Sean—”

“We’re on it, but you’re not safe.”

“Me?” Her heart stuttered to a stop. “Does this have to do with—” she glanced at Hank, “—the painting?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss. Do not go home.”

“I—I have a housemate. Are we in danger?”

Hank glanced up.

“We’ll send someone for her.”

Gretch turned her back, lowering her shaking voice. “He’s a him. He’s usually out on Thursday, but I’ll call. What should I say? Where should he go? Where should I go? Seriously. Does this have to do with the—”

“Pull it together, Gretch.”

She gulped a lungful of air. Vomit was imminent; it was only a matter of when. How could she be in danger? “Okay,” she breathed out in a huff. It did nothing for the jittery shakes. “Officially pulled together. Now what?”

“Give me your address. I’ll send an agent.”

“I’m not waiting around.” This had to be the mob, right? “I don’t want to lead them here.” Hank stopped pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping and stood up.

“I’m in the middle of an op, Gretch,” Jace barked. “What’s the nearest El station?”

“Um…” Gretch walked in a tight circle. Her brain wasn’t functioning right. “Windsor Park.”

“There’s a fire department a few blocks north,” Jace said rapidly. “Station one twenty-six on South Kingston. Turn off your phone and head straight over. I’ll text my brother. Stay with him until I can get to you.”

Gretch frowned. “Wait.” None of this made sense. “You’re texting Sean?”

“My brother Patrick. He’s the lieutenant there. Go!”

She hung up and looked blankly into Hank’s concerned face.

“Everything all right, Gretch?”

“No.” She walked to the window and peered out. The soft light from the street lamp displayed a typical quiet evening in a suburban neighborhood. “Keep a close eye out,” she warned him. “And can you order me an Uber? I don’t want anyone to find the location I’m headed.”

Hank nodded and walked back to the desk. She slipped into the bathroom and immediately called home, fingers shaking spastically. Got her own voicemail message. She pressed end and called Dwayne’s cell. His outgoing message played, and she listened, because it was new. He changed his greeting weekly, usually something witty and outrageous. This one rhymed. Had Sean and the boys not been facing a life-and-death situation, she would have howled. At the beep, she blurted, “The second you get this, turn on the TV. Sean and some little boys have been kidnapped. There’s a huge chance it’s the head of the Chicago mafia, Somebody Donatello. You need to split, Dwayne. They probably know where I live. I’ll be at Fire Station one twenty-six in the South Shore. Call there, because I have to turn my cell off.”

She texted a briefer version, then turned off the phone.

* * *

Gretch wandered into the open garage where a lone fire truck gleamed under the fluorescent lights. No one was about, but the homey smell of pot roast permeated the air, and a side door stood propped open with a folded chair. Beyond, a Cubs announcer on TV declared a “foul ball” to the groan of the stadium crowd and several men nearby.

“Hello?” she called.

A chair scraped, and seconds later a young man with auburn hair and a goatee jogged out. After a blink of male awareness, his face settled into concern. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for Patrick Quinn.”

He motioned to the night beyond. “He’s out on a call. It was a false alarm; they’re about to head back.”

Gretch stayed where she was, just inside the garage, and linked her fingers together. What now? Where was Sean? Had the boys been released? A scream of frustration lodged in her throat.

“I’m Chase Whitley.” The young man thumbed the room he’d just come from. “Would you like to wait in here? We’re about to serve dinner, and the game’s on.”

“Is it possible we can turn to a local channel and get an update on the kidnapping?”

He blinked. “The what?”

“It’s on the other side of the city.” She walked rapidly past him into a large kitchen with older appliances and a long Formica table set for eight. Two blond firefighters slouching on the rear legs of their chairs were riveted to the television. “Stee-rike,” the younger one called simultaneously with the announcer, and pantomimed shooting the pitcher.

“Hey, guys,” Chase interrupted. “This is…” The three men looked at her.

“Gretch.” She twisted her fingers tighter. “Gretchen Allen.”

“Who’s here to see Trick.”

The one who’d called the strike muttered, “Of course she is.” Gretch frowned.

“Shut it, Danny.” Chase motioned to an empty chair. “Ignore him; he’s a probie whose mouth is going to get him into trouble one of these days. And that’s Pete.” He reached for the remote. “She said there’s been a kidnapping.”

The men thumped down their chairs. “What?” Pete sputtered.

“Five boys,” Gretch explained. “At a karate gym on West Chicago Avenue. The instructor is Patrick’s brother.”

“Shit,” Chase muttered. He rubbed his goatee with one hand as he flipped channels. “Water? Soda? Dinner?”

She sank gracelessly onto a wooden chair. She was famished, but anything that went down wouldn’t stay. How her pre-anorexic status as a tween hadn’t clued her mother in… “Some ginger ale?”

Pete stood. He had to be well over six five, and thin as a whip. In two strides he was across the kitchen, pulling a glass out of the cabinet.

Onscreen, a different local newscaster was summing up the same information Gretch had heard at the shelter. A very unattractive photo of Sean’s puzzled face covered the upper right corner of the screen. Her breath seized. Sean. Are you all right? The reporter’s tone was gravely concerned, but the excitement in his eyes triggered her panic anew. Just another victim. Just another half-hour of local news to fill. Who in the media was looking out for the boys instead of the ratings? Pete handed over the glass and reclaimed the chair he’d just vacated.

“Does Trick know?” Chase asked.

Trick? What a stupid nickname. “I don’t know.” The combination of anxiety, mental exhaustion, and low blood sugar overrode the innate need to keep her blond-bombshell mask in place. She couldn’t bring herself to straighten her shoulders or keep her chin up. Couldn’t look the firefighters in the eye. It had to be the mob, right? Were those darling little boys okay? Would they get out of this safely?

The rumble of an engine down the block grew steadily louder until it roared directly outside. Sharp beeps followed as it reversed into the garage. She almost gagged at the thick exhaust floating into the kitchen. Slipping a napkin from underneath a place setting, she held it over her mouth, breathing shallowly.

“Here’s Trick now,” one of the guys said above the din.

Would he look like Jace or Sean or a combination of the two? Christ, she was delirious, focusing on shit like this when the lives of Sean and five boys were in danger.

The engine died, and several boots hit the concrete along with men’s voices—and one woman’s.

“Where is she?” someone called, and Chase, maybe Pete, answered. Gretch laid the napkin on the table and rose. Already oxygen wasn’t pumping to her brain, and a dull buzzing sounded in her ears. She knew this signal.

A striking man turned into the kitchen. No resemblance to Sean, more like Jace’s great looks and heroic presence, frosted with a dark, Zen-like sensuality. Glossy black hair curled in haphazard layers, and the uniform both deepened his warm cobalt eyes and showcased well-defined muscle. Thick evening stubble gave him a rogue-pirate look.

Trick sized her up with genuine friendliness. Not a flicker of the attracted-male awareness emanated, and she was an authority on spotting that. His grin deepened, carving hollows into lean cheeks.

“You must be my damsel in distress.”

Danny snorted. More boot steps and more faces clustered in the doorway.

The ringing in Gretch’s ears grew sharp and piercing. Through the haze of her tunnel vision and irregular thumping heart, she stretched out a trembling hand to stop Patrick from getting any closer. He misinterpreted the gesture and stepped right up, shaking it. “Lieutenant Patrick Quinn, at your service.”

She projectile-vomited all down his torso.

“Dang,” Danny chirped over her heaving. “That’s a refreshing change from all the chicks who faint when they see you.”