He was breathing fast, as if he’d gone on a five-mile run. How could he have forgotten to turn off the phone? The police could easily track a cell phone. And if Eden Fletcher had called the police . . .

Maybe she hadn’t. He hoped she hadn’t. But he couldn’t take that risk.

He glanced furtively around him but saw no cops rushing into the street. No sounds of multiple sirens. He was in the clear.

Did you hurt him? Is my brother even alive?

What did she want from him? He’d said repeatedly the boy was fine. Her voice, so angry and hysterical—she sounded like an electric drill, whirring furiously.

Bitch! He’d done it for her; didn’t she get that? Didn’t she already realize this was the best thing that could have happened to her?

He drove down a side street and found a parking spot. Taking out his other phone, he tapped the Instagram app and watched as her feed appeared on-screen. No new stories or posts. No surprises there. Still, she could have posted something. Even just saying she would be offline for the next couple of days.

He scrolled down to her post about her new shirt and tapped the comment button. There were already 364 comments on that post with emojis and numerous exclamation points. All of them things like beautiful!!! And you’re so gorgeous!!

Oh, he could add his own exclamation-marked comment to the pile. Tapping furiously, he wrote, Ungrateful bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He needed the right emoji. He scrolled through them, searching for the right one. Thousands of tiny useless drawings, none of them really encapsulating what he felt. The betrayal, the hurt.

Finally he added three furious emojis, his finger hovering above the “Post” button.

What the hell was he doing?

He deleted the entire thing, put the phone aside, and shut his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Of course she was angry. He had kidnapped her brother. It wasn’t like he’d given her a detailed bullet point plan explaining how, in the long run, she’d realize it had been the best day of her life. She didn’t know the specifics. It was important that she didn’t know.

She would thank him later.

And her mother had a point, as much as it vexed him. They needed to see the kid was alive. He’d take care of that.

He picked up the phone again and scrolled down to one of his favorite posts. The one where she’d sent a kiss to the screen. The caption read, Thank you.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered back.

It was time to return to the house. It was a long drive back, and the kid was probably already hungry.

CHAPTER 18

Abby knocked on the door of the meeting room and then opened it without waiting for an answer. Five men sitting around a large oval table all turned to face her as she entered, followed by Will.

“Sorry we’re late,” she said.

“That’s fine,” Griffin, the 115th Precinct commander, said. Abby had met the man twice before. He had an uncommonly large bald head, and his scalp seemed to shine so brightly it almost looked as if it were coated with oil. Abby found it distracting.

“I understand the kidnappers called again,” Griffin said.

“Yes, we came soon after the call ended,” Abby said. Two empty seats were located at the far end of the table, and she took one, sitting down by Carver. Will took the seat to her left.

Griffin cleared his throat. “This morning, Chief Harris and I agreed to form a task force to investigate the Nathan Fletcher kidnapping case. I will be leading the task force.” He gestured at Carver. “Detective Carver is the detective from the 115th Precinct who originally got the case and did the preliminary investigation. Detectives Marshall and Barnes are from the Major Case Squad. Agent Kelly will be our FBI liaison. And Lieutenant Mullen and Sergeant Vereen are our hostage negotiators.”

Abby quickly memorized the names. Marshall looked like a father from Sam’s school whose name was Marshall. Barnes was similar to Barney from The Flintstones. She had nothing for Kelly, but his name was easy. Griffin was . . . well, his head looked like a huge egg. Perfect.

“Carver was about to summarize what we have so far,” Griffin said.

Carver cleared his throat. “Yesterday at three fifty-five p.m., eight-year-old Nathan Fletcher got off the school bus at the corner of 25th Avenue and 100th Street. He walked straight home with another pupil, Daniela Hernandez. She verified Nathan was fine when she got home. From there it was a quick walk to his own house. But a neighbor, Frank Doyle, saw him talking to someone driving a white car, and step inside it. The car drove away.”

“White car.” Griffin grunted. “Is that the best the neighbor could do?”

“He couldn’t name a car model, but I showed him some pictures, and he thought maybe it was a Nissan Sentra,” Carver answered. “He didn’t notice the license plate number. He thinks the driver was a Caucasian male.”

“Traffic cameras?” Griffin asked.

“We’re getting the footage now. There are no traffic cameras on 100th Street, but we have several in the immediate perimeter.” Carver flipped a page in his notes. “A man called Eden Fletcher’s cell phone at quarter past seven. He used a voice modulator and said they have Nathan, demanding a five-million-dollar ransom. The call had come from a phone that was turned on a few seconds before. Another call was made this morning with a different phone, also switched on just for the call. Neither number has any previous use. It’s safe to assume they’re using burners.”