Thin Ice (9 page)

Gripping her fork, she opened her eyes . . . and gasped.

Neven stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the door frame, watching her with an expression of . . . pleasure?

Shock rippled through her.

No.

Surely she was wrong.

No one smiled at another's tears.

She blinked, and when she looked again, the small smile and the odd glitter in his eyes were gone.

She must have imagined his reaction.

Nevertheless, a cold cloak of foreboding dropped over her shoulders.

The silence lengthened, and she searched for words. “You no . . . work?”

He pushed off from the door and strolled closer. “No. I'm only filling in at night a few times a week while the other guy recovers. I told you that already.”

Had he? It was possible. Her memory wasn't what it once was.

“I forget.”

“You forget a lot.”

Not enough, though.

Not nearly enough.

“I old.”

“Yes, you are.” He moved to the refrigerator and withdrew a beer, counting the cans as he always did.

She summoned up a smile. “You eat?”

“Yeah.”

Tugging the apple turnover closer, she dipped her head toward the plate. “Tank you, Neven.”

With a muttered oath, he slammed the beer on the counter.

Her hand jerked, and her fork clattered to the floor.

How could she have made such a stupid mistake?

He stalked across the room to loom over her. “That is not my name. I'm Nathan. Nathan! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

She cowered, pulling herself into a protective tuck. Not that he would hurt her physically. That didn't happen very often. But the flush on his face, the anger in his eyes, the feeling of barely leashed violence—they always sent a rush of fear through her.

Just like the fear from all those years ago.

“I sorry.” She whispered the words.

“That's one of my rules, old woman.” Fury nipped at his words. “How many others have you forgotten?”

His angry words muddled into an incomprehensible jumble in her mind. Even after all these years, the language was so hard to understand.

He leaned close. Into her face. “What's my name?”

“Natan.”

“Say it again.”

“Natan.”

He glared at her, his face inches from hers. “You remember that. I worked very hard to become an American. To erase my past. To get rid of my accent. You may still be living in the old country and using the old language, but I want no reminders of that life. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Not all of it, but enough.

After a moment, he straightened up. “Finish your dinner.”

She leaned down, fingers of one hand gripped around the edge of the table for balance, and fumbled on the floor for her fork.

When she retrieved it, his gaze flicked to her trembling hands, and that odd light came back into his eyes. “Eat.”

Bending to her food, she scooped up a forkful of potatoes. Forced herself to swallow them. Tried not to gag.

He retrieved his beer and stood over her, watching in silence as she choked down her meal.

At last he sat at the table, picked up the apple turnover, and took a big bite. “No treat for you today. Mistakes must be punished.”

She said nothing as he finished it off, grateful he'd taken it. The food tasted like cardboard anyway. All she wanted to do was return to her room, fall into the nothingness of sleep . . . and pretend that tomorrow would be a better day.

Because that was the only way she could face another dawn.

C
hristy positioned the cursor over the download prompt, tightened her fingers around the can of soda, and clicked the mouse.

A few seconds later, the Quantico-enhanced image of Ginny that Lance had sent to her home email filled the screen.

She cringed.

This was much harder to look at than the small version at the bottom of the kidnapper's last note.

Closing her eyes, she coaxed her lungs to inflate. Deflate. Inflate. She'd promised Lance she'd study it as soon as she got home. And she would—in a minute. What choice did she have? Since none of the fingerprints on the latest missive had turned up anything in the database, and Quantico's analysis hadn't extracted any clues from the photo, she was their last hope. If she didn't spot a helpful detail, they were back to square one.

The can crinkled beneath her fingers, and she loosened her grip, forcing herself to look at the screen again.

Unfortunately, while the lab had managed to clean up the image slightly, the clarity had degraded in the enlargement.
Everything might be bigger, but it was also more blurry. In terms of searching for clues, a smaller version of the enhanced photo might be more helpful.

But after all the effort the lab had expended, she'd start with this.

Beginning at the top, she worked her way down inch by inch—praying she'd find some detail, however small, that might help the investigation.

By the time she got to her sister's bound hands near the bottom, though, all she had to show for her efforts was a growing sense of despair.

Her gaze lingered on Ginny's hands. Christy might have been the figure skater in the family, but her sister had always had more graceful, expressive fingers. And she'd always played up that asset with bright nail polish—not that it stayed on long in the woods. Despite frequent touch-ups, Ginny had difficulty maintaining a manicure. Chips seemed to be . . .

Wait.

She leaned close and squinted at the blow-up.

Was that . . . ?

Yes.

There were remnants of polish on Ginny's fingernails.

Christy frowned.

How could that be? No manicure lasted two months.

Unless . . .

Had the kidnapper taken this shot soon after the kidnapping?

She rose, pulled her phone from the charger on the kitchen counter, and scrolled down to Lance's cell number. Maybe her discovery wasn't critical. Maybe it could wait until morning. But
she
couldn't—and he'd said to call him anytime.

He answered on the third ring, a hum of voices and laughter in the background. “Christy . . . what's up?”

Great. She was probably intruding on some social engagement. He might even be on a date.

Her spirits bottomed out.

“You sound occupied. I don't want to interrupt anything.”

“You're not. I'm just having dinner with my brother. Let me find a quieter spot.”

His brother.

One piece of positive news, anyway.

Her spirits took an uptick as she waited for him to resume the conversation.

He was back on the line in less than half a minute. “Sorry about that. There was a large birthday party next to us, and they were in a very celebratory mood. Is this better?”

“Much. Anyway, I've been looking at the picture you sent of Ginny, and I saw something that seems odd.”

“What?” His tone morphed from friendly to focused in a heartbeat.

“She's wearing nail polish. Or the remnants of it.”

Dead silence.

“Lance?”

“Yeah. I'm here.” He sounded puzzled. “Tell me why this is important.”

Right. He was a single guy. How much would he know about nail polish?

She explained the issue.

“I get it now. That's a very astute observation.”

A surge of warmth boosted her spirits another notch. “But what does it mean?”

“He might have taken the photo early on. The fresh injuries would support that. While I have you on the phone, why don't you take another look at the picture in light of this discovery? See if there's any other indication it might be an older shot.”

Christy walked back to the table and dropped into her chair. Once more she scrutinized the screen inch by inch.

A second shock wave passed over her as she stared at Ginny's hair and did some quick math.

“I found something else. Ginny's natural hair is light brown. She's been dying it blonde for years. About a week before the fire, she had a touch-up. After two months of captivity, brown roots should be visible. This isn't the clearest picture, so I could be wrong—but I'm not seeing any roots at all. This appears to be a fresh dye job.”

“One more piece of evidence to suggest the photo was taken not long after the abduction.” A couple of seconds ticked by. “I'll tell you what. Let me think about this and run it by my colleagues tomorrow. I'll also ask the lab to home in on the hairline and see if they can confirm what you think you're seeing.”

A tingle of unease slithered through her nerve endings. “I'm getting a bad feeling about this, Lance. If she was okay, why wouldn't he take the picture now?”

“Let's not jump to any conclusions. He could have a lot of reasons. This guy has been throwing you curves from the beginning. Using an old picture could be another ploy to unnerve you.”

“If it is, it's working.”

“But if it's not, it's a mistake. It means he didn't realize how much information was in that photo. And if he made one mistake, he can—and probably will—make others. That will work to our advantage.”

“I don't see how this one does.”

“No piece of information is wasted in an investigation like this. And speaking of information, a colleague and I are working through your lists. Yours is very short . . . and I don't see many friends listed.”

“I don't have many—and none from childhood. Skating and
school took up every minute of my waking hours. In college, I was on a fast track to catch up. I only started making friends after I entered the workforce . . . and I choose them carefully.”

“Not a bad strategy. I also don't see any male names on the friend side.”

She played with the mouse. Was his implied question prompted by personal—or professional—interest?

Both, she hoped.

“The men I associate with are nothing more than acquaintances.”

“Any who might be interested in being more than that?”

An image of Bob formed in her mind. Her contact with him had been so limited on the job that she hadn't bothered to put him on the co-worker list—but he
had
asked her out.

“There is one guy at work who's been trying to get me to agree to a date, but I finally convinced him I wasn't interested. He seemed disappointed but took it in stride.”

“You didn't put his name on the list.”

“I hardly know him.”

“We should at least run some background on him.”

She bit her lip. “I hate to cause him any trouble. He got divorced not long ago, and I think he's having a hard time adjusting. I suspect the poor guy is just lonely.”

“He'll never know we ran a background check—unless we find some negative information. What's his name?”

“Bob Harris. I don't have an address, but I know he lives close to work.”

“Got it. I'll let you know if we find anything as we check out the people on your lists. In the meantime, keep hanging in there.”

She tightened her grip on the phone. It would be far easier to do that if he was there to give her a hug. Even a fake one, like yesterday's, would do.

But wishful thinking wouldn't make it happen.

She took a steadying breath. “I will. Now I'll let you get back to dinner with your brother.”

There was a brief hesitation before he responded. “Okay. But call me if anything comes up.”

“I will. Enjoy your meal.”

She pressed the end button, staring at the photo of Ginny on her computer screen as she leaned back in her chair.

The old photo.

Lance hadn't offered any theories—beyond unnerving her— as to why the kidnapper might have taken it early on.

But she could think of one that made her sick to her stomach.

And as she shut down her computer, she had a feeling even a hug from a certain handsome FBI agent wouldn't be enough to chase away the new anxiety that was creeping into her bones.

“You aren't going to bail on me again, are you?” Mac skewered him with a don't-even-think-about-it look as Lance slid back into the corner booth that gave them both a clear view into the restaurant.

“Nope.” He inventoried the plate of toasted ravioli between them and took two. “I see you put a dent in these during my brief absence.”

“I was hungry. Who's Christy?”

Lance dipped the ravioli in marinara sauce and took a bite. “These are great. How come the rest of the world doesn't know about them?”

“They were invented here. So was the ice-cream cone, at the 1904 World's Fair. You can tuck that in your trivia file. Who's Christy?”

He should have known Mac wasn't going to let that rest.
Too bad he hadn't answered her call with his usual clipped, official “McGregor.”

A blob of sauce fell onto the table, and he wiped it up with his napkin. “A professional acquaintance.”

“Right.”

“I'm serious.”

“‘Christy . . . . aaaahhh.'” Mac did an exaggerated replay of his greeting.

No way had he sounded that . . . smitten.

Had he?

Mac supplied the answer. “If your tone had been any warmer, you'd have melted that butter.” He gestured toward two pats on a plate beside the basket of bread.

“Let's not get carried away.”

“I'm not the one who seems to be getting carried away.” Mac paused while the server deposited their plates of pasta, but he didn't let that minor diversion deter him. “Is she another agent?”

“No.” Might as well give him the basics. His brother could be like a dog with a bone once he latched on to a topic. “She's the figure skater you saw on that video in my apartment. The one involved in my case.”

Mac raised an eyebrow.

“Our relationship is purely professional.”

“If you want my advice, keep it that way till the case is over.” Mac dived into his tutto mare.

Lance glared at him, doing his best to suppress a surge of irritation. Typical Mac. Always the big brother, dispensing words of wisdom. “That cream sauce is a heart attack on a plate, you know.”

“Maybe. But I'll die happy.” He speared a shrimp. “I'd ask you about the case, but I don't want you to breach any confidentiality protocols.”

Lance toyed with his vermicelli. Truth be told, Mac had
sound insights—and he wouldn't mind having him weigh in on this. Between his SEAL experience and his newer career as a homicide detective, he might be able to offer a few helpful ideas—or at the very least confirm that the train of thought he was following was on track.

“Can I ask you a theoretical question?”

“Theoretical, huh?” One side of Mac's mouth quirked up as he continued to shovel in the pasta. “Sure.”

He relayed the gist of his conversation with Christy. “I'm not liking the old photo angle.”

Mac stopped eating. “I wouldn't be, either. I can only think of a couple of reasons your guy would do that—and neither one is pretty.”

They were on the same track.

Either Ginny was in very bad shape . . . or she was dead.

Tomorrow he'd make sure her DNA was put into the missing person database . . . in case a stray body turned up somewhere.

“That's what I was thinking.”

“Did you share your theories with the skater?”

“No. She's already freaked—and there's a chance it's not as dire as it appears.”

Mac sent him a dubious look. “I hope you're right, but I wouldn't count on it.” He grabbed another piece of bread. “You pulled a tough one for your first case.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“Any veterans in your group you can call on for help?”

“A very sharp former HRT operator.”

“You want my opinion? Take advantage of his experience. I know it's not easy to go from special forces to rookie, but don't be too proud to ask for advice. I learned a lot from Lisa when I was a greenhorn working that bones case with her.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” He dug into his own pasta. “Speaking of special forces, have you heard anything from Finn lately?”

Twin creases appeared above Mac's nose. “An email over the weekend. I got the impression he was headed out on a mission and might not be in touch for a while. Sounded like the Middle East. Again.”

“Par for the course for an Army Ranger. I don't like that he's still in the line of fire, though.”

“That makes two of us.”