NINETY-THREE

THE Washington Mews, where I’d been held, was located on a gated cobblestone street, just one block from the park where I’d woken on a bench with a damaged memory.

Over a century ago, in the horse-and-buggy era, New Yorkers had built hundreds of mews like these—rows of two-story structures constructed to serve wealthy residents in larger homes. Typically the ground floor would hold stables for horses and carriages, with living quarters for domestics on the floor above. By now, most of New York’s carriage houses have been demolished, but some have survived, becoming chic landmarked town houses for urban residents.

The majority of properties in this mews were used by New York University for programs on language and culture, but several of the buildings were still privately owned.

Unless my abductor was a raving-mad NYU professor of romance languages, I was looking for one of the private homes.

By one PM, Mike and I were walking slowly down the historic cobblestone street when I stopped dead and began to shiver—more from seeing that familiar stained glass circle than from the blustery autumn weather. I pointed to the town house a few doors away.

“There it is,” I whispered.

Mike raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure, let’s see who’s home.”

“Wait!” I called too late. He’d already pressed the doorbell. Mike rang three more times, without a response. Then he peered through the front window. Thanks to a gap in the curtains, we could see that the interior was all shadows and darkness.

“Let’s try the back,” Mike said.

The iron gate to the wooded courtyard was unlocked. Here the wind shook dying leaves loose as I led Mike into the private gardens behind the row of old houses. When we reached the right home, Mike approached the windowless rear door. He knocked loudly, then jiggled the knob and pushed with his shoulder. Finally, he took something from his jacket pocket.

“Watch my back,” he whispered. “And if an alarm goes off, you run like hell out of here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Flash my badge.”

“So, you really are breaking in, then? I thought we were looking for evidence—which will be useless if you enter the house without a warrant.”

“And I thought we were looking for Annette.”

Mike fiddled with the lock. After a moment, he cursed, and I figured he couldn’t pick it. I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or relieved. Then I heard a click and saw his grin.

As he cracked the door, we both tensed—and didn’t breathe again until we were sure no alarm would sound.

Mike shook his head. “And people wonder why they get robbed.”

I pushed him through the door and into a narrow carpeted hallway. The town house was clean and neat, but the air was stuffy, as if no one had been here for days.

We passed the kitchen and a small bathroom. Both were empty. When we reached the living room, I recognized the couch where the Grunting Man had fallen asleep the night I escaped.

“I want you to stay down here while I check upstairs,” Mike said.

He must be reading my mind, I thought, because there is no way I want to see that room again.

As Mike warily climbed the stairs, I took a closer look at the living room. My eyes were immediately drawn to a wall decorated with family portraits.

An old Rod Stewart song came to mind, “Every Picture Tells a Story,” and I found a whopper.

Displayed in plain sight was the history of a family told in photographs. I recognized every person in these pictures, and that’s what shocked me—because no one, including me, had ever guessed they were a family!