CASSIE ALLOWED HERSELF to be led from the house, watching helpless as Kasanov’s thugs escorted Muriel to a Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb and shoved her inside.
A second, identical car pulled up behind it. Kasanov opened the rear door for Cassie. She tensed, thinking this might be her best opportunity to escape, knowing the others inside the house would be watching for a chance to save the situation, waiting on her cue.
“Please, Dr. Hart, don’t underestimate me like Mrs. Steadman did. I’ve read all about your tendency for heroics,” Kasanov said calmly, reaching into his pocket. Instead of the gun Cassie expected, he pulled out a handheld radio. “My men are listening—anything goes wrong and Mrs. Drake will be killed.”
Cassie resisted the urge to spit in his face—adolescent antics would do nothing to improve the situation. But it would have made her feel better, given her some brief sense of control. Not to mention the satisfaction of wiping that greasy smile from his face.
Kasanov seemed disappointed by her docility as she climbed into the car, pulling the folds of the wedding dress in with her.
“I’ve lived this long by learning not to believe everything I hear,” he told her once he’d joined her in the back seat. “But also by not underestimating anyone I deal with. You can rest assured that if it had suited my purposes, I would have left no witnesses, would have snapped that boy’s neck if only to prove to you who is in control here.”
Cassie was silent as he lounged against the corner, not bothering with a seat belt. He had wanted to leave witnesses. Why? A message for Drake could have been just as easily sent with dead bodies. She had a suspicion that it was some form of misdirection, but she couldn’t see how. Kasanov hadn’t even bothered with the comic book formula of telling them not to call the police—which would be the first thing Andy would do.
She wasn’t surprised then when they pulled into a parking garage and she was hustled into a second vehicle, a light gray Dodge Caravan, complete with a “Baby on Board” bumper sticker. The car Muriel was in was nowhere to be seen. How far was his radio’s range? she wondered.
“What do you want?” she finally asked as they drove off in the van, hidden from traffic behind tinted windows.
“Tell me about your grandmother.” He surprised her. “Tell me about what she did during the war.”
Cassie frowned. “Why do you care about Rosa? What does she have to do with this?”
“Rosa Costello stole everything from me—my father, our family pride, my legacy. It’s because of Rosa Costello that I am who I am.” He smiled at this, the wide grin of a predator. Cassie felt a chill enter the pit of her stomach.
“No matter what happens here you can blame it on your beloved grandmother—Rosa Costello, the bitch.” He spat out the last, a glob of saliva splattering the skirt of Muriel’s dress.
Cassie shifted on the bench seat, protectively pulling the fabric closer to her. Kasanov’s face clouded in fury and he grabbed her, his hand bunching in the folds of silk, yanking her closer to him, ignoring the ripping noise as the skirt caught on the seat buckle.
“Don’t make me beat it out of you,” he snarled, all pretenses at civilization shattered. “As much as I would love to. Because, for the short time, anyway, I need you alive. And if you die, so does Drake’s mother—” He pinched her cheeks in his hands, squeezing her face, forcing her to look at him, to see truth of his threats.
Finally, he released her. She crumbled against the seat back, her chest heaving as she fought for air.
Kasanov crossed his legs, shaking out the crease in his pants leg. “Now. Tell me about your grandparents,” he commanded. “Where did they hide the treasure?”
That’s when Cassie’s courage faltered. Because in all of her grandparents’ tales of their adventures during the war, neither had ever mentioned any kind of treasure.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His slap came like lightning. For a man in his sixties, he had great reflexes. Cassie’s cheek burned but she didn’t touch it; instead, she simply stared at him. He was obviously smart, able to lead men, successful…but if he thought Rosa and Padraic had access to some hidden treasure, then he was also completely mad.
“Tell me where the gold is,” he repeated. “I know they got it out of France—their escape cost my grandfather his life.”
She shook her head. Then remembered. It wasn’t a treasure, not by any definition, but…“Her perina. Rosa kept the gold in her perina.”
A perina was a crazy quilt, a patchwork pieced together by generations of the women in Rosa’s kumpania, each sewing small treasures beneath the fabric to guard against bad times.
Rosa had used her perina for more than a portable treasure chest. After her kumpania had been betrayed and the Nazis captured Rosa, they’d sent her to a prison farm. She’d ground manure and grass seed into the fabric of her perina and then used it as camouflage to help her escape.
Decades later, that same perina had saved Cassie’s life when her house was set on fire. Those ragged bits of fabric, sewn with love, were worth more to her than any treasure.
Kasanov obviously didn’t see it that way. He glared at her. “I’m trying to decide if you’re a fool or just ignorant. If you’re playing with me, it’s Drake’s mother who will suffer.”
“No,” Cassie said. “That’s the only gold I know anything about. Rosa and Padraic never had any money—they lived on a farm, could barely pay the bills. You must be mistaken.”
“I am not mistaken,” he told her in a slow, deadly voice. But then he paused and considered. “And I have no patience for liars.” He raised the radio, gave a command in a language Cassie didn’t understand. Then he held the radio up to her. “Listen.”
A woman’s screams pierced the air, drilling into Cassie.
Muriel.
“Stop, please. I’ll do anything you want.”
“Tell me where the gold is.”
Muriel kept screaming, barely pausing long enough to breathe.
“I told you, I don’t know. Rosa never talked about her past. I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”