Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook

  Please note that the endnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication

  Dedication

  For Annie

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Before

  Chapter 2: Before

  Chapter 3: Before

  Chapter 4: After

  Chapter 5: Before

  Chapter 6: After

  Chapter 7: Before

  Chapter 8: After

  Chapter 9: Before

  Chapter 10: After

  Chapter 11: Before

  Chapter 12: After

  Chapter 13: Before

  Chapter 14: Before

  Chapter 15: After

  Chapter 16: Before

  Chapter 17: Before

  Chapter 18: After

  Chapter 19: Before

  Chapter 20: Before

  Chapter 21: After

  Chapter 22: Before

  Chapter 23: Before

  Chapter 24: After

  Chapter 25: Before

  Chapter 26: After

  Chapter 27: Before

  Chapter 28: Before

  Chapter 29: After

  Chapter 30: Before

  Chapter 31: After

  Chapter 32: Before

  Chapter 33: Before

  Chapter 34: After

  Chapter 35: Before

  Chapter 36: Before

  Chapter 37: After

  Chapter 38: Before

  Chapter 39: Before

  Chapter 40: Before

  Chapter 41: Before

  Chapter 42: After

  Chapter 43: After

  Chapter 44: After

  Chapter 45: After

  Chapter 46: After

  Chapter 47: After

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Praise for Charles Martin

  Also by Charles Martin

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Present Day

  Los Angeles

  The limo was quiet save the tapping of her finger on the faceplate of her phone. The driver glanced at her in the mirror, but she was lost in her own rearview and missed it. And him. From his vantage point, he had a front-row seat of her. And her iconic legs. While she caught the first glance, she didn’t catch the second.

  The pill fob was attached to a chain around her neck. Knowing the drive from her seaside home could last more than an hour, she unscrewed the lid, dropped one pill discreetly onto her tongue, and then returned the fob to its hiding place at the base of her neck. Something to take the edge off. The seamless motion reminded the driver of a kid with a Pez dispenser. Or the Marlboro Man with a Zippo lighter. Both actions were practiced and subconscious, requiring little thought.

  The tapping slowed but only slightly; there was always an edge.

  A minute later, her phone pulsed. Something she’d been expecting but it startled her nonetheless. She’d been awaiting word from her private investigator, Roger, but when she eyed the unknown number, her heart leapt. It was not him. She tapped on the text and read furiously as a wrinkle appeared between her eyes. The text was short. To the point. As was the demand. Their last communiqué had promised information if she satisfied their demand. She had. To the penny. In return, they had assured her of something tangible. Hence, the finger tapping the phone.

  She read the text a second time, looking for any clue but found none. She typed quickly. “But you promised a picture.”

  Their response was equally prompt. “Do you really want to play this game?”

  She did not. “30 min.”

  The response was immediate. “15.”

  She straightened and sent a cryptic text to her financial advisor.

  His response returned just as quickly. “You must be joking.”

  “Please don’t argue. Send the money.”

  The text disappeared into the stratosphere. Two seconds later, her phone rang. He spoke before she had a chance. “Joe, I’m recording this call. I can’t wire a half million dollars to an unknown Swiss account from a text. We have procedures. Safeguards. You know this—”

  “George.” She took a breath. “It’s time sensitive. Please . . . just—”

  “I need it in writing. Not to mention the fact that we need to have a conversation about fiduciary responsibility.”

  The driver watched as she polished off the Grey Goose and poured a second. In truth, she didn’t really like vodka, but it amplified the pills and left her breath untainted. “This is time sensitive. I need it done now.”

  “Joe, it’s for your pro—”

  “George . . . they have my baby.”

  A long pause. “Is this you or the silver screen talking?”

  It was an honest question. “It’s me.”

  Another pause while he filtered for the truth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. We’d heard rumors but . . .”

  “We’ve been trying to keep it out of the press.”

  “What about the authorities?”

  “It’s tricky. They always seem a step ahead.”

  “Heard she used to work for you.” It was a question posed as a statement.

  “Two years.”

  “You were close?”

  “Hair and makeup.”

  “You never really know someone, do you?” He listened to himself and tried to correct. “I’m sorry. That’s not helpful.”

  She nodded again, conscious that the medicine was lowering her defenses. And her filter. Through the silence, she said, “Send me whatever you need me to sign. You’re protected.”

  She heard fingers tapping keys in the background. Her phone pulsed, and she signed with her finger and tapped Submit.

  He continued. “I thought you were renovating Malibu or buying a Swiss chalet.”

  “I wish.”

  A pause. More keystrokes. “You want the total?”

  “One point two,” she said calmly.

  A long pause. “Can the authorities recover any of this?”

  “The FBI says yes. My investigator doubts that.”

  “Who do you believe?”

  “Neither.”

  On the drive down, the sun had set over the Pacific where deep blue bled into a crimson sky. Now the night had grown dark, lit only by streetlights. After a final keystroke, he said, “We’re dealing with different time zones, so hang on a minute while I get confirmation.” George tried to fill the awkward silence and address the elephant in the phone. “Did you get the flowers?”

  She had. “Yes. Thank you. They were lovely.”

  “So how was it this time? Any better? I hear mixed reviews.”

  “Cured.” She turned the pill fob in her fingers, her honesty disarming. “Sixth time’s the charm.”

  A pause. “I didn’t know. Thought it was more casual.” Something must have happened on the electronic screens in front of him because she heard his chair squeak. “Wire confirmed. Check your phone.”

  She did. A screen of numbers stared back at her.

  “Of all the nights . . .” He trailed off.

  She stared at the distant searchlights making figure eights in the night sky. “She’s no dummy.”

  “And how much money you make,” he quipped. She heard the chair squeaking again. Then he barked, “Unconscionable,” followed by a guttural, half-muted curse and ending with “betrayal.”

  Another slight nod. “Feels that way.”

  He redirected. “We’re pulling for you.”

  When she spoke, she was staring out the window. “I’d trade it all.”

  She ended the call and leaned against the window as the Los Angeles skyline came into view. Wasting no time, she forwarded the confirmation to the unknown number that had demanded the sum. From the first contact, they had used different numbers. Now somewhere over two dozen. Not even her ex-CIA private investigator, Roger, could crack the system because each number was untraceable, single use, and prepaid monthly. Used once and discarded. Cartels and ISIS did the same. She knew as soon as she sent this text, this number and this phone would cease to work.

  She typed quickly, hoping to sneak it in. “Amber, please, are you okay? Is the baby well?”

  The driver watched her knee bounce as she waited for a response.

  A minute later, her screen lit. “Baby is kicking.” Then came the gut punch. The thing she’d been wanting but never expecting. For which she’d never let herself hope. Which was exactly why Amber sent it. But that, too, raised a question. Had Amber sent it? Was she okay? The wording gave way to doubt. “Baby is kicking” didn’t sound like Amber. But did she really know Amber? Regardless, whoever sent it knew it’d knock the air out of her.

  That was not the knockout. It would follow. The next pulse included a close-up of a pregnant stomach, complete with tiny stretch marks and a small protrusion to the right of the belly button. The inexplicable and undeniable imprint of the underside of a baby’s foot. Complete with slight toe indentions. The pineapple tattoo alongside was their bona fides. Proof that the stomach was, in fact, Amber’s. They’d been in Maui on a film set drinking rum punch when she’d sat for it.

  The sting was exponential. She’d put Amber through cosmetology school. Tau
ght her the nuance of makeup for screen. Bought her a car. Introduced her. Paid her twice what she was worth. Brought her on vacation. Made her family.

  “Amber.” She typed furiously. The window was closing. Using as few words as possible. “Boy? Girl!? PLEASE.”

  The response was quick. “VEI.”

  She had no idea what this meant. “Sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Somebody was playing her. “That is very expensive information.”

  This, too, did not sound like Amber, which once again assumed she knew Amber at all. Joe had received very little information over the last two months. All of it consisted of cryptic messages, so she was never certain if she was talking with Amber or someone else. The word choice here didn’t sound like Amber. She wouldn’t say “very” or “That is.” The entire phrase was too polished. Too put together. Too mysterious. It sounded like someone trying to sound like someone they weren’t.

  Amber had grown up in rural Alabama and quit high school in the tenth grade to start “doing hair” because she had a knack for it and could make more money standing behind a chair than sitting in it. Her language was much more casual. More along the lines of, “Girlfriend, you can’t touch that.” As much as the texts made it seem like Amber was running the show, Joe had long suspected she was not. Complicit? Yes. In charge? Probably not.

  Amber’s boyfriend was a hip-hop wannabe. Tall. Fit. Early twenties. Tattooed bumper to bumper. Frank Carter, aka Busta Line, fancied himself an entrepreneur. Businessman. They’d met at Da Beez Neez—a popular dance club where he stared mysteriously through sunglasses, grabbed his groin, and mumbled expletives into a microphone on open mic night. Frank was a classic pretender who convinced Amber he was an artist to watch. On the move. Being courted by Atlanta, LA, New York. “In talks.” Seven-figure record deal. In truth, he was a thug. A punk with an attitude. And the only thing he was moving was prescription drugs through the night club. Frank was an opportunist, a shoplifter, a car thief, a drug dealer, and a pathological liar, and his only claim to fame was having spent time in juvie and now dating someone who once had access to someone famous. Someone with money. Making him important by association.

  Adding insult to injury, Amber was a terrible judge of men.

  Knowing her time was short, Joe sent the one phrase that might break through. Rattle something loose. The muted memory of friendship. Amber had grown up idolizing Dolly Parton, who was no stranger to hair spray. Because, even on a bad day, hair spray can fix anything.

  Joe typed, “Tease it to Jesus.” Then hit Send.

  Come on, Amber.

  Seconds passed.

  Then a minute.

  She stopped tapping, sure the SIM had already been destroyed.

  Buzz.

  Her heart leapt again. She tapped, then sucked in a deep breath, which she held for nearly thirty seconds.

  The text read, “And spray it like hell.”

  In the previous months, she often wondered if Frank was doing most of the communicating, leaving Joe to wonder if Amber was okay. Or was she in danger herself? Reading this, she knew Amber was present. She might not be holding the phone, and she might not be in charge, but she was close—because only Amber would know how to fill in that phrase. Yes, Frank could’ve Googled it, but she doubted he was that smart.

  But that wasn’t the best part. Unsolicited, a second text followed. This time a picture. Joe sucked in a breath and tapped the icon, revealing an ultrasound. Dated yesterday. 3D. So clear it looked almost alien. The nose. Lips. Ears. Perfect in every detail. The hands. Fingers. One folded. One more open. She counted out loud. “One-two-three-four-five. One-two-three-four-five.” She stroked the picture with her index finger. “Perfect,” she whispered. But what caught her off guard were the eyes. Which seemed to be looking right at the camera. Almost posing. Was it her imagination or was the baby cracking a smile?

  Joe typed furiously, ignoring mistakes, offering more money. “Are you safe? Let me help.”

  But Amber never received the offer. Verizon returned the text as “Undelivered.” The window had closed. Frank might have been a punk, but he wasn’t a fool. He had street smarts and he was good at being bad. He’d found his sugar mama and wasn’t about to let her off the hook. Roger had warned Joe not to underestimate him. Choking on anger and tears, she unscrewed the cap, dropped two more pills onto her tongue, and chased them with more fire in a bottle.

  The driver watched, unaffected, as her eyes glazed just slightly and her neck began to wobble. The edge had been taken off. Pain muted. The driver left the PCH just north of Santa Monica on San Vicente Boulevard, routing them through Brentwood, the southern end of Bel Air, and finally the Hills. Beverly Hills. 90210. Where little girls’ dreams come true. Or at least some of them. Maybe one or two.

  In the rising haze, Joe entertained a question she might not have were she sober. Dreams. When was the last time she had let herself dream? She leaned her head back. She knew the answer. And that, too, hurt. The problem wasn’t the when but the who—and the bitter taste they left in their wake. The unanswered questions. So much left unsaid. She closed her eyes and whispered aloud, “Pockets.”

  The driver perked up. “Excuse me?”

  She waved him off. “Talking to myself.”

  He stared into the rearview mirror and said, “You okay, Mrs. Joe?”

  She noticed for the first time that in order to speak, the driver had to push a button at the base of his esophagus and that his voice was computerized. No doubt the effect of too many cigarettes. She waved him off, but she was anything but okay.

  She stared up through the tinted glass and counted streetlights. One, two . . . seven, eight. Long ago, she discovered the monotonous rhythm calmed her. Her chest rose and fell with each deep breath. She had just started to doze when her phone shook her awake. Her voice was shaky. “Yes?”

  “Joe.” A pause. Roger’s voice sounded pained. “They’re gone. No trace.”

  A second passed as she shook off the haze. She was slow to speak. Almost slurring. “But you said—”

  Roger cleared his throat. “We’ve exhausted every lead.”

  She was more awake now. “But you told me . . . you’d done this before.”

  “We have. Many times.”

  “What about, ‘These people establish a pattern’?”

  “They do. These didn’t. Or haven’t.”

  “But I did what you said. Paid every penny.”

  “There are no guarantees. That said, they have something you want and you have something they want. It’s simple economics. Blackmail 101. They’ll be in touch.”

  “It’s not simple to me.”

  He knew he shouldn’t have said that, so he made no response.

  “So I just sit here and”—she lifted her phone—“wait for the ding?”

  “Unfortunately . . . yes.”

  “You know how hard that is?”

  “I understand. They have you on a string.”

  Normally one to play her cards close to the vest, Joe seldom revealed what she thought, but then there were the pills and the ache. Her voice rose. “You have no idea.” In a rare break, the truth slipped out. “No concept. Do you know what I’ve gone through?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll give them whatever they want. I thought I made that clear. They can have it all.”

  “And if you do, you’ll never see—”

  “But you told them. Right?”

  “Joe.” Seconds passed, which told her all she needed to know. “Part of my job is to protect you from them. Help you make wise decisions when your ability to do so might be . . . compromised.”

  The words protect you from them rattled across her mind. In her mind’s eye, she saw Pockets. Standing just a few feet behind her. Always in the shadow. An arm’s length. Three feet. Tie. Sport coat. Sunglasses. Hands folded. Haircut high and tight. If he were here . . . She shook off the thought. He’s the reason I’m in this mess. She gathered her composure. “Compromi—”

  He corrected. “You know what I mean.”

  “So you didn’t?”

  “Joe, if I tell these people you will pay them five million, they will take it, then bleed you for another five. And you’ll have nothing. Please . . . trust me. Let me do my job.”

  She untwisted the cap, palmed a single pill, crushed it with her teeth, and chased it with more liquid courage. For a mere mortal, this would turn out the lights, but she’d built quite a tolerance over the years. “So? What now?”