Michael Calgary’s office is a tiny brick building wedged between two average-sized businesses, which make it appear even smaller. Several inches of snow hang over the edges of the flat roof. Her breath is as rough as the car engine, puffing white exhaust into the street. She opens the window and takes an unsteady breath. Vapor from her breath hangs in the fog before dissipating. The chill cools the sweat coiled around her neck like a noose.
Sarah has combed the area for anyone associated with Peter Briggs. She’s called every trucking company in Washington. The biggest issue, as far as Myra can tell, is that Peter Briggs is not his real name. The companies have searched through every public record they have and cannot find evidence that he’s used this identity with anyone but Elizabeth and Theo.
The police thought he was simply an evil man who kept her daughter hostage there in the wild because he could, because there was nowhere for her to go with his brute strength and her lack of resources.
They were wrong.
He was a smart, calculating psychopath, with friends who want her back. These people want to destroy her family, and Myra needs to know why.
She opens the car door. It scrapes against an embankment of snow turned to solid ice. “Ouch,” she says, slipping through the small space between the car and the packed white hill. The cold slices through her light sweater. Michael’s office is northeast, away from the ocean and into a wooded area, where the winters are harsher.
The office is quite dark, though the sky is clear, and an orangey pomegranate color emanates from the setting sun. Tall pines are tucked around the buildings that expand into the deep woods up the mountain. Michael clears his throat, stepping in the door. The walls are stained a dirty-beige color. A single lamp lights the place.
“Anyone here? Mr. Calgary?”
She hears shuffling in an office behind the reception area. A flood of incandescent light spreads through the lobby as the door widens. Michael steps out briskly. “Ms. Barkley.” He smiles as if pleasantly surprised.
Myra sinks into a light green couch and sighs. “It’s been a long drive.”
“Icy out too.” Michael reaches up high on a shelf and retrieves a decanter of some sort of liquor. He pours two glasses and slides one to Myra.
She squirms in her seat. The place is sleazy. It smells of stale smoke and ill-gotten cash. She wonders what exactly Michael does, besides setting up cameras and following people. She wants her money back.
Michael reaches into his front pocket for a cigarette. He rolls it between his fingers for a moment. “I’m sorry about the cameras. And what happened in the shed. It seems we’re dealing with someone more sophisticated than we thought.” Michael taps his foot. “Those cameras were locked down. They couldn’t be hacked. I swear it.”
“Well, they were,” she says. “I was trapped in that shed.” She rocks back and forth in her seat. “I thought he was going to kill me. And you were supposed to be solving our problem, not making it worse.” His casual attitude is infuriating. She wants to spew obscenities at him, but she holds her tongue.
“There are no guarantees in life,” he says.
“Stop with the fucking clichés, Michael.” She grips the arms of the chair so hard she can hear her fingernails sinking into the faux leather. “Clearly, this person is smarter than you. I want my money back. Every dime.”
“Hey.” He holds his hands up. “I didn’t guarantee anything.”
She grimaces. “Look, you said yourself: this is a high-profile case. Do you want the world to know how impotent you are? How badly you’ve failed? Maybe you didn’t make any guarantees. But you shouldn’t have made things worse.”
Michael snorts. “You have no idea what he was planning. It wasn’t my cameras that turned the monster on you. But fine, you can have your money.” He goes to his desk, slips open the drawer, and pulls out an envelope. It is so stuffed with cash, the flap gapes open. “Here,” he says, counting out her money. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out, Ms. Barkley.”
“You have no idea what I would do for our kids.” She puts the cash neatly inside her wallet. “I want him captured and sent away for life.”
Michael lights the cigarette. He blows a thin ribbon of white smoke through pursed lips. “You couldn’t make out a vehicle?”
“No,” she says, and stands. She paces across the short room, twirling the end of her braid. “I couldn’t make out a thing. He’d driven away by the time I was able to break through the latch.”
“I feel you, Ms. Barkley, I really do.” He changes tack. “That was very brave, hacking through a two-by-four. That had to have taken strength. If he comes back, you’d put a bullet in him, wouldn’t you? For Charlotte?”
The familiar guilt twists inside her like a parasite eating her alive. “I can’t do that. It’s too far. I have a conscience.”
“I ain’t a therapist,” Michael chortles. “I deal only in practical matters.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Let’s start locally.” He waves his arm around the room. “Everyone needs to make money. We just need to find out where and under what name.”
“The cops have been after him for twenty years. I’m not sure who this other person is—or how you can possibly help.”
“Are you certain this Elizabeth Lark isn’t in on it?”
“I’m sure,” she says, eyes burning. “She is my daughter, Mr. Calgary.”
Michael pauses and takes a drag from his cigarette, “Well, you think about it. I can trail her. I can do some research into this cabin. You got DNA results coming?”
Myra shakes her head. “I’ve got to talk it over with Herb. He’s got an issue with you right now.”
“Suit yourself,” he says. He slurps his drink and takes a business card from the desk. “I’m here, if you change your mind.”
She heads for the door, toward the cold, inky night. An owl calls from somewhere in the woods. Trees creak in the wind. All else is silent.
Michael follows her and holds the door open. “Be in touch.”
Myra turns. “I will.” A shiver runs down his neck. She stomps over the ice as quickly as he can. She can’t shake the chill glued to her lungs. The box of a place is freezing.