“Aren’t you tired of this yet? Tell me where she is and you’ll be out of here. I’m tired of your lies, Hannah. You lie about everything, even the sex of our child. Where is she?”
Hannah watched the man she once loved more than life itself pace back and forth in the dark, musty cellar. And now she knew he could easily kill her.
The basement reeked of fish. It had to be near Fisherman’s Wharf, but exactly where, she had no idea. The wharf was covered with small, dilapidated buildings that no one used ever since the tourist trade became more profitable than fish canning.
She sat on the concrete floor, her wrists and ankles tied with duct tape, but he’d left her mouth uncovered so that she could answer his questions. Her only answer was a simple but quiet, “No.”
Tyler’s eyes were filled with hate and rage. He rubbed his fist, and she wondered if next he was going to hit her. “There’s no reason for you to be so stubborn,” he ranted. “You can’t keep her. You can’t even take care of yourself, let alone a baby. I know it, and so do you.”
“I can and I will,” she said, her voice still strong even though she was hungry and exhausted by the ordeal. “What’s wrong with you? How can you do this to me?”
“I’m trying to help the baby. Our baby,” he said.
“If you think reminding me will make me feel any better about you, you’re wrong! It only makes me despise you that much more!” He raised his fist and she flinched, eyes shut, waiting for the blow.
“You’re making me crazy, Hannah!” he yelled, lowering his arm. “The Vandermeers are good people, a warm, loving couple. They’re filthy rich. They have a huge house. They can give a child everything she could ever want, plus lots of love. They’re already talking as if they love her. They wait to name her Morgan. Classy name, isn’t it?”
“Morgan? It sounds like a horse,” Hannah said bitterly.
“Think of the child.” He got down on his knees in front of her. “They want her, and the possibility of getting a healthy white baby from this country means a lot to them.”
“So much they’d pay big bucks for her. That’s what you said, Ty,” she cried. “I still can’t believe you want to sell our daughter.”
“Vandermeer has already put up a huge deposit. We can’t risk his anger.”
“What will he do?” she asked, disgusted. “Go to the police?”
“Be reasonable,” he pleaded. “You were willing to give her away to an adoption agency. Why not make some money while we’re at it?”
“An adoption agency would screen the parents. They have rules. But none of it matters. I told you I changed my mind. I’m keeping her.”
“You can’t change it, Hannah. It’s too late.”
“Leave me alone!” she screamed.
“I’ll leave you, all right,” he said, but couldn’t resist one last shot. “If you loved your child, you’d want her to go to the Vandermeers. They can give her more than you. That’s what being a loving mother is all about. You know it, too. You know I’m right.”
Hannah couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. A part of her agreed with everything he said, damn him! Why did she listen to him? Why did she let his words curl into her heart and confuse her? “I can’t give her up, damn you. She’s my baby! She’s my life!”
“Stop blubbering and listen to me!” He grabbed her shoulders. “I want that baby. You thought you could hide her from me. You lied and lied, ‘Yes, Ty, whatever you say, Ty,’ then as soon as you got the chance, you ran off with some rich dude, making everyone think I can’t keep my end of a deal. You aren’t going to leave me holding the bag, Hannah. It’s not going to happen.”
Her body went rigid. “What do you mean, everyone? Who else knows about this?”
He let go of her. “You’re such a fool, Hannah. Such a naïve, romantic, unobservant little fool.”
Nona Farraday walked inside the Athina and almost turned right around again. It wasn’t the kind of place she reviewed, and it certainly wasn’t the hot spot Angie had said it was. The best thing she could say was it appeared to be clean.
A blond-haired waiter came out of the kitchen and greeted her. She felt his eyes take her in, and when he smiled appreciatively, she decided to give the place a chance.
She ordered taramosalata canapés to start, chick-pea soup, beet salad, moussaka, veal in lemon-wine sauce, and smyra meatballs. Normally, she went to restaurants with friends and sampled their dishes so she didn’t seem quite so piggish, but she couldn’t ask anyone to a place of this low caliber. That meant she’d have to try several dishes and desserts herself, odd though it might seem. Not that she cared what the help here thought, anyway.
She’d already determined she wouldn’t like the food. It was Stan’s favorite restaurant, and obviously his taste was bad. In everything.
The food, to her dismay, was surprisingly good. She was basking in desserts—fried loukoumades with honey, custard-filled svingi, and an almond kataife roll, when a dark, magnetic individual presented her with Greek coffee and a glass of ouzo over ice. She gawked and decided she might develop quite an appetite for baklava—something she’d never known a Greek restaurant to run out of.
“I’m Michael Zeno, the cook,” he said, his voice deep. “I had to see the woman who orders so much food, only to send most of it back to the kitchen.”
She shifted nervously. “I wasn’t sure what I’d like—and I was in the mood for variety. Is there a problem? I’m paying for it.”
“Did you like it?” He seemed to be glowering at her. Was it so bad not to clean one’s plate here?
“It was…quite good, actually,” she replied.
“Why are you here?” he asked bluntly.
She put down her fork. “Now that I’ve finished, I can tell you. I’m a critic for Haute Cuisine.”
He eyed her harshly. “Sure. All of a sudden this place is crawling with food critics. Where were all of you when I needed you?” He walked away.
She was puzzled and gulped down the ouzo. Time to leave.
To her surprise, the blond waiter came by not with the check, but with a whole bottle of ouzo. He sat down across from her, poured himself a glass, then refilled hers, the ice in her glass turning the ouzo milky white. “Don’t let Zeno bother you. He’s a gruff sort.”
“It’s not a way to win customers.” She was still smarting.
“I heard you’re a restaurant reviewer,” he said with a smile. “Is it true?”
She eyed him and the liqueur. Both looked scrumptious. “Yes.”
“Since you’re my last customer,” he continued, “I thought you might have some questions about the restaurant before you leave. Anything I can help you with?” He held out his glass to her. “Yasas!”
She clinked her glass to his. “Yasas! This is strong stuff.” She took a sip, then put down the glass. “I don’t think I should have any more.”
“Think of it as flavored wine, that’s all,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll see that you get home safely.”
She liked the sound of that. “I thought ouzo was like vodka.”
He sniffed his glass. “Notice the subtle anise aroma. What vodka has that?”
She sniffed her glass. “It does smell good, doesn’t it?” She drank some, then a lot more as Tyler regaled her with stories about the restaurant from the days when Michael Zeno first opened it, how fresh fish was brought from the boats out on the dock into the restaurant, and how people would line up to eat here. Mostly, they were people who worked in the area, and they knew the Athina’s food was fresh, cheap, and plentiful. In time, as more tourists came, more restaurants sprang up, the blue-collar workers got pushed out, and the Athina was simply too small and rough to appeal to the newcomers. Zeno sold the place to Leer.
“Why did Leer buy an unprofitable restaurant?” Nona asked.
“Needed a tax write-off, I guess.” With that, he poured them both another glass.
Tyler was interesting, charming, humorous, and knew how to flirt, even when telling stories about the past. He brought her more thick Greek coffee, plus tasty sesame cookies, a thin slice of walnut torte, and, as if in answer to her secret desire, baklava.
Nona felt warm, contented, light-headed, and was having trouble focusing when Tyler changed topics. “I know another restaurant reviewer,” he said, “Angie Amalfi. I suspect you know her and her neighbor—Stan, I believe his name is.”
“I’m no friend of Stan’s,” she said. Her jaw didn’t seem to quite work, and her words sounded a little slurred. “He’s nothing to me. And not half so cute as you are.” Had she really said that? The ouzo was a lot stronger than she had thought.
Tyler laughed. “You’re too kind, and too charming. Actually, I don’t see you with Stan. You’ve got too much class for him.”
“I know,” she said with a moan and a sigh.
“Did you two date long?”
“Of course not!”
“But I’ll bet he took you to his apartment, tried to put a move on you.”
She shook her head, frowning at the memory of going to Stan’s place. It’d been humiliating. “Not really.”
“I can’t imagine. What’s wrong with him? He must have taste in his feet.”
“Maybe.” A melancholy moroseness struck her. “Or another girlfriend.”
Tyler nodded. “Even worse! How could he, when he knows you?” He took her hand in both of his and lightly stroked her fingers. She felt a tingle down to her toes. “Is his apartment really right next door to Angie’s?”
“Across the hall.”
“I wonder what others on their floor must think, with all the running back and forth they must do.”
“They’re the only two on it.”
“Really?” He lifted her hand to his mouth and nibbled on her knuckles. She was sure she was seeing stars. “Which floor is it?”
“The top floor—twelve. The building is older—it was tall when it was built, but now twelve floors is nothing, even on the top of Russian Hill.”
He lowered her hand to the table. “The twelfth! Nice. I suppose Angie has the apartment with a view of the bay.”
“Her place has a beautiful view, but so does mine. It’s very”—she kicked off her shoe and rubbed her toes against his leg—“very comfortable.”
“Well,” Tyler said, jumping to his feet. “I think I should call you a cab to go back to it. You don’t want to drive in your condition.”
“A cab?” She looked around. What happened?
“Let’s walk down to Jefferson Street. There’s always one coming by looking for tourists.”
“But…”
He helped her to her feet and held her jacket as she first stepped back into her shoe. When they reached Jefferson, a cab was just driving by. Tyler hailed it and put Nona inside.
She hardly knew what had happened when she found herself alone, once again. Here she thought Tyler was interested, sexy, and willing…yet she’d gotten the bum’s rush!
What’s wrong with the men in this town?
Hannah worked the duct tape on her hands, trying to stretch it, to loosen it, to get it to move, somehow, with no luck. She was exhausted. Her legs and arms had gone numb from the way they’d been tied, a numbness she knew would turn into deep shooting pains if she couldn’t stretch or otherwise help her circulation.
Hours had passed since Tyler was last there. At least when he was with her, she could hope to talk him into letting her go. Hope that she’d get out of here and not be abandoned. Where was he?
Her biggest worry was that he’d find the baby. She didn’t understand how he’d figured out that Stan was the one she’d gone to. Stan was a just a customer. If every customer she’d ever talked to was tracked down, it would have taken months to find Kaitlyn. What went wrong?
Perhaps she gave something away in how she’d talked with Stan. Was that it? Had she been too obvious in her interest in the man, or had Stan been too obvious in his interest in her? She remembered the way Stan’s sweet brown eyes had settled on her with so much warmth, and how she’d felt the color rise in her face because of it.
What was Stan doing now? What was he thinking about her being gone so long? Did he still have Kaitlyn, or had he sent her off to Social Services because her mother had abandoned her? Somehow, she didn’t think Stan would do that. He’d wait. He’d give her time to come back for the baby. He knew she wouldn’t abandon Kaitlyn.
She prayed he knew it, at any rate, and that he’d wait for her to return.
Her throat was parched and her stomach ached from emptiness. Was that part of Tyler’s plan? To wear her down with hunger?
He’d pour her water from a glass jug when he came in, nothing more. After that, he’d badger her with talk.
He almost made her believe she should give her baby up. But when she thought about losing Kaitlyn, she couldn’t bear it.
He’d called her selfish.
Was it so selfish to want to raise one’s own child?
The cellar was dark and empty. She’d seen how empty it was when he came in with his flashlight and lit the battery lantern. When he was gone, it was darker than night.
She remembered the words from Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” Something about the bright, blessed day, and the dark, sacred night.
She’d never see the dark as sacred again. It was evil. The evil of death.
It reached out for her. Would she ever see her child again?
She could feel herself growing weaker. It had been bad at first when the hunger pangs struck, but they were gone now, replaced by a dull, constant ache.
Where was he? What if he never came back? No one would know she was here. She’d die of thirst, a slow awful death. She licked her lips. They were starting to crack.
The water bottle was kept on a shelf.
A glass bottle….
It gave her an idea. If it worked, she’d be free. But if it didn’t…She wouldn’t think of that now.
She scooted along the wall to a corner, then twisted herself around and rocked back and forth until she was able to get up onto her knees. Using the walls to brace herself, trying time and again, she managed to maintain her balance and lift herself up to a standing position.
She pressed close to the wall so she wouldn’t fall and moved by sliding her feet, first toes, then heels, toward where the jug sat.
When she reached it, she felt the jug with her nose, then used her head to shove it off the shelf. It fell to the cement floor with a crash. Glass shattered around her.
Carefully, she lowered herself to the floor once again and felt in the rubble for a large piece of glass. The entire bottom of the jug had stayed intact. It was exactly what she needed.
She braced it against the wall and lowered the duct tape onto a sharp edge, then slid the tape slowly back and forth over the glass until the tape broke in two.
After tearing the tape from her wrists, she grabbed the glass and used it to cut through the tape at her ankles. Blood streamed from her hands, lots of blood, but it didn’t matter. Freedom was near.
Sense and feeling pushed aside the overpowering despair and numbness she’d felt, but still it took several moments for her to be able to walk.
She stumbled toward the door, knowing it would be locked. The good news was that it was just a normal interior door. Nothing especially thick or strong.
She kicked it. It didn’t budge. Fury filled her as she thought of how he’d tried to kill her, as she thought of never seeing her baby again, and she kicked harder, again and again.
A panel on the bottom half of the door cracked. She aimed her foot at the crack and struck until it split wide.
She worked at it, kicking, grabbing it with her hands, rocking the wood back and forth until she made an opening, then tearing at it more until the opening became large enough that she could squeeze her body through it.
It was amazing, she realized when she calmed down enough to think about it, that no one had heard her breaking the door. No one came to investigate the pounding and crying, for only after it was over had she realized she’d been screaming with fury.
The need to move slower struck. Freedom was so close, so precious, that she didn’t want to do anything in haste that might jeopardize it.
After she felt her way to the stairs, then up them, a door at the top caused her heart to sink. It might be locked and far more solid than the one she’d just fought through.
It opened.
The main floor of the building had windows that were cloudy with dirt and grime. Only a little light shone into them. It must have been nighttime, she surmised, and the lights were street lamps.
The building appeared to be filled with old machine parts. She found a door and opened it just a crack, then peeked out. The street was dark and empty. She slipped into the night, staying close to the building as she went, until suddenly it felt safe to run.
At the corner stood a street sign: Battery and Filbert. She was near the Embarcadero, near the waterfront, but more importantly, she was less than two miles from Stan’s apartment. She could make it.
Up ahead was Broadway Street. It’d take her around Telegraph Hill, and from there she could quickly climb to the top of Russian Hill and Kaitlyn. Tears filled her eyes as she went, staying close to the buildings, not wanting anyone, not any of the night people, to delay her.
But then she stopped. The question that had bothered her the entire time she was tied up struck. How had Ty found her? She had just rounded the corner from Stan’s apartment building when she was grabbed. A rag was placed over her mouth—it must have had chloroform or something similar because she was soon out cold.
When she awoke, she was being pulled from the car. She was too woozy to understand where she was or what was happening.
Had Stan given her away? Was he involved in this? Or was it Angie? Ty had talked about her. Angie led him to her, he’d said. Had it been a mistake on her part? Or did she do it on purpose?
No! Angie was a good person, like Stan.
Wasn’t she?
And if it was Angie, why would she tell him the building address, but not Stan’s apartment number? Thank goodness it was a twelve-story building, or Tyler might have gone door to door looking for the child.
Confusion filled her. She’d trusted foolishly once, given a man her heart, lowered all the defenses she’d built up over a lifetime to let him get close to her. Dianne Randle had questioned her judgment about men. Maybe she should question her judgment about women as well.
Nothing made sense! She couldn’t think, and felt only fear and complete exhaustion. If she rushed to see Kaitlyn and was wrong, she might never see her daughter again.
She stood on the sidewalk in front of Angie and Stan’s apartment building. She ached to go inside, but she also had to think this through. Who could she trust? What should she do to assure that she and Kaitlyn would never again be in danger?
Tyler was the biggest threat to her and her daughter. The one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world was to see Kaitlyn’s father dead. Unbidden, the thought came to her—find him and kill him.
Olympia Pappas tried to concentrate on her job, but the letters and numbers blurred before her eyes.
She couldn’t stomach it any longer. Not his lies, his deceit. He’d loved her once, but it was over. She had to face it and get on with her life. But the thought of a black, loveless, desolate future brought angry tears to her eyes.
Why couldn’t he see that she was the best one for him? Why didn’t he understand that she loved him enough for both of them?
She tried to concentrate on matching the case number on the paper she held with the number written on the folder, but it wasn’t working. All she could see was Tyler.
She could make him happy if he’d only give her a chance instead of wasting his time on other women. She’d seen how they’d go alone to the restaurant and then throw themselves at him. That skinny blonde whore did it tonight. It made her want to throw up!
Did he think she hadn’t seen? That she hadn’t known?
How dare he treat her like this! Take her love and toss it aside as if it were nothing—as if she were nothing.
She stuffed handfuls of papers into folders, her hands flying, her mind paying no attention to what she was doing.
She’d show him. She’d make him sorry he ever, ever dared to treat her that way. He’d be hers or he’d be no one’s. She’d rather see him dead.