Someone pulled her away from the sink, and a sudden sting of pain shot through her face.

She blinked, focusing. Gabrielle stood in front of her, panting hard. She’d slapped her.

“Mom, I’m calling the police.” Gabrielle already had her phone in her hand.

“No!” Eden shrieked and yanked the phone away from her daughter. “He said they were watching.”

“We need to do something.”

Her daughter was right. Nathan needed her to do something. She couldn’t lose herself to her usual routines. And it occurred to her that she did have one person to call.

“I know someone. Someone who might help.”

“Who?”

“She’s a cop.” Eden walked back to the kitchen and picked up her phone from the floor. “She’ll know what to do.”

“How do you know her?”

We’ve gone through hell together.

“She’s someone I used to know.” Eden found Abby Mullen in her contact list and made the call.

“Hello?” a woman answered.

“Is this . . . Abby Mullen?” It wasn’t. It didn’t sound anything like her.

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is . . .” She paused for a fraction of a second. She couldn’t tell the woman her real name, not yet. Abby might hang up. “Edie Fletcher. I live in East Elmhurst. I need your help. My son has been kidnapped.”

There was a long pause. “Edie, did you try calling 911?” Abby finally asked.

“No. They’re watching me; I can’t call the police. But I saw you on the news a few months ago. You can help me, right?”

“Edie, there are people better suited to handle a kidnapping case. I can connect you to—”

“Please,” Eden sobbed. “I need you to help me.”

Another long pause. Nathan’s life hung in the balance, teetering on the edge of a chasm, as Abby Mullen decided what to do.

“I don’t live far; I’ll come over,” Abby said. “What’s your exact address?”

CHAPTER 9

The rain spattered on the windshield, the wipers working frantically, fighting a hopeless battle against the downpour. Abby peered through her drop-spotted window at the house. Whatever attempts had been made to differentiate this house from the row of identical structures on the block had met with failure. Like the houses to the left and right, it had a tiny front yard, an uninviting front door, and a shaded window facing the street. Two more windows on the second floor, and a third shuttered window hinting at a tiny attic. The rain and the darkness served to make the house even smaller.

She should have been more insistent with that woman on the phone. But there was something in Edie’s voice, a sort of desperation Abby couldn’t ignore. And the drive from her own house at College Point to East Elmhurst wasn’t long. She’d left as soon as her mother showed up to pick up the kids, brushing off a question regarding Ben’s birthday. They could talk about that later.

Sighing, she switched off the engine, the wipers freezing midswipe.

She exited the driver’s door and struggled to get her umbrella open. By the time she managed it, her glasses were completely spattered, turning the world into a blur. She hurried to the front door and rang the doorbell.

The door was yanked open, and a large woman stood before her, her face cast in shadow.

“Edie Fletcher?” Abby asked.

“Come in,” the woman said, tears in her voice.

Abby stepped inside, taking off her eyeglasses, wiping them on her shirt. While she did that, she glimpsed the fuzzy shape of another younger person—the woman’s daughter?

“Thank you for coming,” Edie Fletcher said.

Abby turned to face her, still wiping the lenses of her glasses, then put them back on, and the woman shifted into focus. She was instantly struck by a sense of familiarity. She knew this woman, but from where? Edie had a fair, pink complexion; deep blue eyes; and wavy brown hair. She wore a loose purple shirt, and Abby could glimpse parts of tattoos above the collar—a flower on one side and letters on the other. Her face was blotchy with tears, her lips trembling.

“Sure,” Abby said, taking off her coat. The woman’s daughter took it from her. She was a few years older than Samantha, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with blue eyes like her mother’s and cascading blonde hair. Her face was pale, crumpled with worry.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Abby asked.

“Nathan didn’t come home from school today,” Edie said in a trembling voice. “And I got a phone call—”

“I’m sorry, how old is Nathan?” Abby interrupted.

“Eight. I called all of his friends. They saw him get off the school bus, but he never came home. And then I got a phone call from a man who said they have Nathan. And they want five million dollars.”

Abby nodded, a sinking feeling in her gut. Most child abductions were by someone in the family. A ransom demand was unlikely in that case. And the ridiculously high sum was worrying. “Okay, when was this?”

Edie blinked, confused. The daughter said, “My mom got the phone call an hour ago.”

“Okay.” Abby glanced around her at the tiny kitchen, the dark living room. “Is Nathan’s father here?”