Nine

Sun House was a confectionary yellow Queen Anne Victorian mansion nestled in a grove of live oaks trailing long beards of moss. Three stories, laced with ornate white gingerbread, it was too large to see all of it from one angle. Ava glimpsed blue iris and great skeins of white phlox through the bars of the ten-foot wrought-iron fence that bordered the property. An upstairs window was open, white drapes swaying gently within.

If the place was a brothel, it was a successful one.

You can’t miss it , Bob had said on the phone. It’s yellow as the sun itself .

It was.

Ava reached up under her jacket to check the holster was secure at the small of her back, squared her shoulders, and marched forward.

Until a hand clasped hers, and tightened like a vise.

She swung around, fist already cocked back, and Tenny lifted his brows above the lenses of his sunglasses.

“If you’re this trigger happy already, I’m not liking our chances inside,” he drawled.

Ava tried to wrench her hand away, and found she couldn’t; his fingers tightened cruelly. “Let go,” she hissed, and his head tilted. His brows went down. She couldn’t read his gaze through the dark shades, but his mouth curved upward in a smile that had her redoubling her efforts to get loose. “I swear–”

“What’s wrong, honey?” he asked, in a Southern accent that was less ridiculous than Jeff from Spring City. He sounded like someone from north Georgia, or even eastern Alabama, soft and twangy without being over the top. It sounded natural , and it startled her into stillness. “I thought you wanted to do this. You sounded so excited before.” He swung her hand back and forth.

With his other hand, he lifted his glasses, and above his smile, his eyes flashed, sharp and direct. Without moving his mouth, he whispered, in his real voice, “You’d better start playing along, honey , or you’re going to give away the game before we even get in the door. I warned you.”

He had.

Shit.

She took a deep breath, and willed some of the angry tension from her shoulders, and nodded. “Okay.”

His brows went up again.

She tried to do something apprehensive with her face, and eased in closer to him. “I do want to do it,” she said, and though she thought she didn’t sound like an anxious lover about to engage in her first threesome, Tenny nodded, flicked his glasses back down, and closed the gap between them. “I guess I’m just nervous.”

“That’s alright, baby.” He swapped her hand to his other one, so he could put his arm around her shoulders and draw her snug against his side. The shape of him reminded her of teenage Aidan, so startlingly different from Mercy’s solid breadth. “We’re doing it together,” he said, “and we always have fun together, huh?” He pressed his smile against her hairline, and whispered, “You must make it believable. If they have cameras, or microphones–”

“I know, I know,” she whispered, and looped her arm around his waist.

Together, they headed down the sidewalk, following the corner of the iron fence, until they reached the gate. There was a buzzer, as promised over the phone. And a small, black eye above it she knew was a camera. It was for its benefit that she turned and pressed her face against Tenny’s shoulder.

Tenny pushed the buzzer, and an intercom crackled. “Hey there,” a friendly, female voice called. Dare she say flirty . “What can I do for y’all today?”

In his Southern accent, Tenny said, “We’re the McAllisters, here to talk about the arrangements for our wedding?” A little questioning lilt on the end.

“Let me see…oh, here you are. Yes, the McAllisters. Y’all come on in.” A chime sounded, and the gate unlocked and swung inward on automatic hinges.

Halfway up the front walk, Ava glanced over her shoulder and saw it swinging shut on its own. “Can you–” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he whispered back. “Of course.”

“Anyone ever accuse you of being overconfident?”

“Not as an insult.”

The walk led up to a wide wooden staircase, which in turn led up onto a cool, shaded wraparound porch decorated with dark rattan furniture. Ceiling fans turned lazily, lifting the scent of gardenia blossoms, which grew in rich, white profusion along the base of the porch. A wreath hung on the door, green and brown magnolia leaves set with white ribbon.

Ava swallowed down a scoff, and schooled her face to a look of what she hoped was doe-eyed uncertainty.

They stood with their arms still wrapped around one another, and for a moment, Ava felt terribly glad not just of his skills – apparently, he had zero doubts about being able to get that gate open later if they needed to – but of his company, too. Not just allies, but maybe friends, here at the threshold of a beast.

The idea gave her the boost she needed to shut herself behind the fa?ade Tenny had been encouraging since before they left the hotel: that of the meek but pliant wife. The giggly woman as embarrassed as she was thrilled by what she and her man were about to do. It was a little easier, then, to pretend. To cock her hip, and shape her face the right way, and hang off Tenny’s arm.

Tenny reached for the doorbell, but before he could press it, the door swung inward.

The woman standing in the threshold was neat and trim, in a simple, A-line dress with a modest scoop neck, and sensible heels. She wore her hair in a sleek bob, and though clearly in her twenties, wore an air of friendly maturity.

Her hair was brown. As were her eyes. This wasn’t Regina.

Ava’s stomach sank before she reminded herself that the madam would of course not be answering her own door.

“Hi there,” the brunette greeted, all Southern charm. She swapped a look between them. “The McAllisters? Well, aren’t you two sweet. And pretty!” She grinned and fanned at her face for show. “I’m Tiffany. Come on in.” She stepped back and held the door wide. “Your florist will be so pleased to meet you.”

The interior of the house matched the exterior, orderly, and Victorian, the furnishing spare enough to keep the whole effect from being grandmotherly ornate. They passed through a foyer flanked by dainty tables and gilt-framed mirrors, past a grand, curving staircase, and down a hallway into a sitting room with floral, bare-legged sofas, a fireplace, and a long, rich mahogany buffet table set up as a bar, bearing an assortment of glassware, bottles, and an ice bucket.

Tiffany walked in a way that Ava recognized from Maggie’s satire of her teenage years: the Debutante Sway, as Maggie had said, laughing, then stood up as tall as she could in her cowboy boots, thrown her shoulders back, and sashayed her way across the living room until Ghost glanced up from his bike magazine, wide-eyed, and said, “Shit, stop that, you’re freaking me out.” Ava remembered laughing, high and giggly and only seven, horrified and hysterical in equal parts over her mom’s transformation. Tiffany walked that way now, mincing little steps, belled skirt of her dress twitch, twitch, twitching side-to-side.

She turned once they were all in the room, and gave a gameshow wave toward the bar. “If y’all can wait here, I’ll go make sure everything’s ready for you upstairs. Please help yourselves to something to drink, and I’ll be back in a jiff.”

“Thank you,” Tenny said, shades pushed up into his hair, now, smile butter-soft and sugar-sweet. The boy could act , damn it.

As soon as she was gone – low heels clicking on the staircase – Tenny released Ava and strode across the room to an adjoining doorway. He peered through, then turned to the window. “Billiard room,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder. “There’s a door there that leads out onto the back porch.”

Ava joined him at the window, and her pulse leaped. “Look. There’s a detached garage.” It was across a wide swath of green lawn, as ornate as the house, a three-car with windows that indicated an apartment or storage space above.

“Yeah. That could be promising.” He turned back to face the room, shoulders braced against the window mullions, and said, quietly, “Listen. When we get up to the room, don’t–”

“Make a move until you do. I know , Ten, Jesus.”

He sighed. “I know you’re tough. But you’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

She didn’t respond to that. He’d said the same thing at least seven times now, and it no longer warranted a response.

“You want something to drink?” he asked.

“No.”

He chuckled. “Good girl.”

“Asshole.” But she said it fondly, and when she caught his eye, his grin said he could tell she didn’t really mean it.

The sound of heels on the stairs reached them again, and they rearranged themselves against the mantle, his arm around her waist, her head leaning on his shoulder, both their gazes trained on the framed photos there. For a moment, as Tiffany approached down the hall, Ava took a good look at the pictures, and was surprised by their contents: black and white portraits of women from at least sixty years ago, standing on the porch of this very house.

“You think it’s always been a brothel?” she asked. The women weren’t scantily-clad, but there were a lot of them, and more than a few were smiling coquettishly.

“Probably.”

“Okay, y’all,” Tiffany called from the doorway, and they turned to face her. She carried a small wooden box, lacquered black and painted with magnolia blossoms. Belatedly, Ava saw the lock on the clasp, and the narrow slit in the top. A cash box. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you up.” But she made no move to lead them anywhere, simply thrust the box forward expectantly.

Still linked, they walked forward, and Tenny pulled a carefully folded stack of cash from his jacket pocket. They’d hated to part with their running money, but between Bob and Dandridge, and the ATM at the bank, felt they could get more. Tenny spread the corner of the stack with his thumb and tilted it toward Tiffany in a deft gesture so she could check the sum, and at her nod, shoved it into the slot. It was so fat it barely fit.

When Tiffany smiled, she flashed white, even teeth. “Thank you. Now, with me, please.” She carried the box against her stomach in both hands, like a loaf of bread, and clipped her way out into the hall and to the base of the stairs.

There were more photos on the wall leading up the staircase. Black and white to start, then color. Women on the porch, women in the garden. Some men, too: gentlemen in fine dress, with top hats, and canes. A standout of a man astride a tall, gleaming black horse, old Model Ts parked along the street.

They emerged on a broad landing done up as a sitting room. Long hallways ran off from it in either direction, flanked by wood-paneled doors and small half-tables set with vases of flowers. Ava started counting doors, and lost track somewhere after fifteen. Jesus. That was a lot of rooms to check in a short amount of time. Even if Tenny was the most competent assassin alive – he’d probably claim that, if given the chance – there was only so much one assassin and one furious mother could do against a whole team of security thugs when they inevitably started coming out of the woodwork. Places like this couldn’t function without tough guards.

Tiffany turned to the right and led them to the fourth door on the left. She gave a quick rap, then opened the door and motioned for them to go through with another debutante smile. “Here we are. Enjoy your meeting.” She winked, and then they were through the door.

Ava was dimly aware of it snicking closed behind them. Just as she was dimly aware that the room appeared to have a theme, and that theme was lavender: curtains, bedspread, rug, silk stalks in a vase on the dresser. This was peripheral, because all of Ava’s attention was caught and held by the fact that the woman sitting – legs crossed, robe half-open, one flat brown nipple flashing – on the edge of the bed was definitely not Regina Carroll.

Olive-skinned, black-haired, and slender, she pointed her bare, blue-painted toes at them and smiled in a slow, chin-tipped, cat-like way designed to enthrall. “Hey there.” Her drawl was as Cajun as Mercy’s, as smoky as her gray eye shadow.

“Hi,” Tenny said, playing at bashful. “Um. I’m Trent. This is my wife, Carrie.”

Ava stood inside the circle of Tenny’s arm, and all the panic she’d convinced herself was determination, was fierceness, was fearlessness, boiled up, that ugly black tide, and drowned her.

“You’re not who we asked for,” she blurted out.

The woman’s smile froze. Her brows lifted. “I’m – what?”

Ava tried to take a step forward, and Tenny’s arm tightened around her waist. She dug her nails into his wrist until he said, “Aw, fuck, stop .”

“Where’s Regina?” Ava demanded, her meager acting skills thrown to the wind, alongside her caution. “We specifically asked for Regina.”

“I…” The girl dropped her flirtatious pretense. Pulled the robe closed over her chest and held it there. “Regina doesn’t take clients anymore.” Her accent was gone, too. She sounded nasal, New Yorkish. “Not except for special cases.” Her look said they clearly weren’t such a case.

“Is she here?” Ava asked.

“Honey,” Tenny cautioned.

“ Is she here now ?” Ava said.

“I – no.” The girl’s eyes got wider. “No, I don’t think so.”

Ava dug her nails hard into Tenny’s wrist. He could have stopped her. Could have spun her around and incapacitated her and hauled her out of there. Instead, he muttered, “Ah, bollocks.” And turned her loose.

~*~

Tina Bonfils not only liked her job as a real estate agent, but was damn good at it, too. She’d always had a flair for feeling people out, for finding just what they were looking for, and then delivering. She liked helping homeowners with staging their homes to the best effect, and she liked watching the joy unfold on a buyer’s face when they walked through a house and started envisioning it as a home. She liked negotiating, and dealing, and fighting for her clients. She liked feeling like what she did every day mattered to someone.

She also liked the flexibility it afforded her.

Today, for instance, she had a two-hour gap between showings, and she decided to swing by home for a quick lunch, and a little time working on her front porch, which she’d decided to repaint after finding a few flaking bits on the rail where the morning glories continued their relentless assault. She left her car in the carport, let herself in the side door, and went to change into her painting clothes before throwing together a quick salad.

She was rinsing her bowl out at the sink when the doorbell sounded.

“Ugh,” she sighed, shutting off the water with her elbow and reaching to slot the bowl in the dishwasher. “Go away.”

But the bell sounded again, and again, and then again .

“Fuck me,” she muttered.

For the last two weeks, Jimmy Slate from three doors down had been going up and down the street passing out fliers for his new lawncare business. Calling it a “business” was a bit of a stretch, considering it was one teenager with a borrowed lawnmower. Tina had told him that he could mow her lawn on Saturdays, but then he’d come around two more times, wanting to mow her lawn multiple times a week. He had his eye on a Camaro he’d admitted, finally.

“Jimmy,” Tina said as she opened the door. “I’m sorry, hon, but you can’t mow my lawn every day. You’ll kill the grass.”

But it wasn’t Jimmy’s pimpled, narrow face peeking at her from the shade of her porch. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with a leggy blonde in a too-short dress, huge sunglasses, and bright red nails that flashed like talons as she reached to push her shades up and reveal big, kohl-ringed blue eyes.

“Not Jimmy,” she drawled. “But you’re Tina Bonfils, I think.”

Tina wasn’t paranoid by nature, and she’d never backed down from another woman, certainly. But a prickling of unease moved up her back beneath her old painting sweatshirt, and, for some reason, her mind flashed to Alex, his consternation over his latest case. His brother.

“Who wants to know?” she asked.

The woman reached into her purse – and withdrew a gleaming blue revolver. She leveled its bore at Tina’s face and smiled wide. “The bitch holding the gun on you.”

~*~

It had been a long time since Ava had been in a proper fight with another woman, and she wouldn’t count this as one either. When Tenny released her, Ava hit the bed at a run. The woman had time to suck in a sharp, startled breath, but not to scream, before Ava slapped a hand over her mouth and bowled her over across the mattress. She pinned one arm with her knee, and snatched the wrist of the other with her free hand.

The woman’s eyes bugged, and she writhed, and bucked, and struggled, but Ava was filled with the sort of violent adrenaline that powered people into lifting cars, and, child of the club that she was, knew exactly how to use her strength to the best advantage.

Behind her, she heard the door lock, and then Tenny came to put one knee up on the bed beside her. He drew the girl’s wide-eyed gaze. Her nostrils flared above Ava’s pinky as she sucked in quick, panicked breaths.

Ava wanted her attention back, so she leaned down in her face and hissed, “Where the fuck is Regina?”

The woman gurgled something high and strained against Ava’s palm, and tried to buck her off.

She stilled when a hand slid across her throat and rested there. Not squeezing, yet. Pale, slender, long-fingered. Platinum wedding band.

In his real accent, his voice silken-soft, Tenny said, “Here’s how it is, honey .” The pet name was venomous, now. “I’m a reasonable man, and if it was only me, we could have this conversation sitting up like civilized people. Armchairs and drinks. But this one” – he tilted his head Ava’s direction – “is, as you can see, fighting mad. So how about this–”

“Quit fucking around,” Ava snapped.

“See? Fighting mad. Answer our questions, and maybe she won’t hurt you too badly. Maybe I’ll even intervene on your behalf. Sound reasonable?”

She struggled again, and Ava shoved her down into the covers, one hand on her wrist, one hand over her mouth.

Tenny sighed. “Damn. Hard way it is, then.”

~*~

Tina sat at her own kitchen table, at gunpoint.

The self-proclaimed “bitch” holding the gun wasn’t nearly as young and glamorous as she’d looked on the porch. In the unforgiving spill of sunlight through the window above the sink, she was lined, spray-tanned, underfed, and caked with far too much orangey makeup. Her hair was stiff with so much product that it shifted as a whole unit, like a helmet, when she shook her head and smiled at Tina’s stubborn expression.

“Oh, honey. Don’t look at me like that. You better get nice and comfy.”

There was a part of Tina that was – rightfully – panicking. An armed stranger was in her house and ordering her around. But the woman’s hand, with its red acrylics, and its gaudy, costume jewelry rings, didn’t look like a hand that was comfortable on the grip of a gun. That was encouraging.

“Who are you?” Tina tried to keep her voice even, but firm. Her mind flashed way, way back to the night she met Remy. To the night she’d thought Oliver Landau might grab her by the hair and throw her across the parking lot before Remy’s big, broad-shouldered, low-voiced intervention. Somehow, for some reason – Alex’s sudden, renewed interest in his lineage, doubtless – she felt that this woman, and this tableau, was related to Remy somehow. That a decision she’d made as a frightened kid, an alliance she’d formed, a relationship, had waited like a beast on the bottom of a dark pond, springing on her now, jaws open, teeth flashing.

The woman smiled some more, and leaned back against the counter, free hand braced on its edge, gun hand tilting so the barrel lay sideways, still pointed at Tina’s face. That’s not how you hold a gun, dumbass , Tina thought, but didn’t say, since she wasn’t holding one at all.

“Bet you’d really like to know, huh? You’ll find out who I am when the time’s right. Don’t you worry about that, honey.”

Tina’s phone was in the pocket of her jeans, but she didn’t think now was the time to reach for it. She said, “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘When the time’s right?’ What do you want?”

“Bet you’d like to know that, too, huh?” the woman said with a smirk that made her look like a cat about to barf. She was the sort of pretty taken so for granted at an early age, and then made up so heavily with each passing year, that she’d somehow managed to turn herself into a caricature of a human.

Also, her vocabulary sucked.

“Is that all you can say?” Tina asked, anger bleeding into her voice. If she was going to get shot in her own kitchen, it would be nice if she could at least be shot by a convincing and frightening villain instead of this over-peroxided bimbo. “Because, if this is a hostage situation, I’m going to need a little more information.”

The blonde’s cheek twitched, smile spreading on that side into more of a grimace. She righted the gun, arm extended, barrel level once again. It trembled, though; her arm was so thin, and the revolver so comically large, that Tina doubted she could land a shot properly. The recoil alone would probably make her whack herself in the face.

“I’ve got the gun,” she said, giving it a waggle. “I’ll ask the questions.”

“Okay,” Tina agreed. “But why are we doing this? Why am I sitting here?”

The smile fell away completely, replaced by a snarl that turned the woman’s eyes pale and flat as cloudy bottle glass. “Your son’s an FBI agent, isn’t he?”

A realer, deeper fear licked through Tina, then. Shit. Alex. Shit, shit .

“Alex Bonfils?” the woman pressed. “Right?” When Tina hesitated, she took a menacing step forward, leading with the gun.

“Yes. That’s my son. How do you–” She bit off the rest of the sentence when the woman took another step.

“Call him,” the blonde said. “Call your son.”

Tina stared at her a long moment, and realized she was serious. “And tell him what ? That a woman’s holding a gun on me? Tell my FBI agent son that I’m being held hostage?”

“Call him. Get him here. Now .”

“He’s in Virigina,” Tina said, helplessly, sure she was about to die at the hands of a madwoman.

The nasty, razor-sharp grin returned. “Heh. No, he’s not.”

~*~

The dark-haired prostitute refused to give them anything useful. Tenny bound her hands, stuffed a bit of rag in her mouth, and gave Ava a stern look. “Stay here.”

“I’m going to look–”

“I’m going to look. I’m faster, and I can pick locks better, and I can think faster on my feet if I get caught.” He held up both hands, placatingly, when she scowled. “Okay, it’s not about thinking. It’s about acting. Which you’ve proven completely incapable of doing this afternoon, Mrs. McAllister.”

“Bite me,” she snapped. Then: “Hurry.”

He nodded. “Lock this door behind me. I’ll call through when I’m back.” Then he was gone.

Ava studied the closed door a moment, hands curling and uncurling at her sides. It should be me , she thought. He’s my baby. I should be the one searching for him.

But Tenny was right. He was right a lot more than she wanted to admit, and her wrecking ball approach was likely slowing them down rather than helping them.

Not that she’d admit that at gunpoint.

With a sigh, she turned back to face the interior of the room.

The hooker was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands bound behind her back, thoroughly gagged with the cloth Tenny had brought along for just such a purpose. Her mascara had run from crying, and her eyes flew wide when Ava looked at her. She sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, whimpering, shrinking back on the mattress as best she could without aid of her hands.

Through the haze of numbness she was still relentlessly using to contain the waves of panic and despair that lapped at her insides, a faint curl of satisfaction twisted high in her stomach. This woman was afraid. Afraid of Ava.

She should be.

Ava double-checked the door lock, then sat down at the dressing table’s padded bench, facing the bed, legs crossed. “Okay, then. Now that it’s just us girls, why don’t we have a little chat.”

The girl’s nostrils flared hard.

“I know you can’t talk. You can just nod and shake your head.

“First question – and, word to the wise, I’m going to find out the answers I need whether you provide them or not. But. Well. It’ll be easier for you if you’re honest.”

No doubt this chick had seen her share of awful shit, given her profession, but even so, she looked properly terrified.

“This is an easy one,” Ava continued. “Does Regina Carroll run this place?”

The girl hesitated so long that Ava uncrossed her legs and moved to stand, but then she nodded frantically. Squeezed her eyes shut and let out another whimper.

There , Ava thought, resettling. The dam was broken. “Okay, good. Is she here now?”

That earned a shake. The girl’s eyes cracked open, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Has a man named Harlan Boyle been here the last few days?” When that earned a blank look, Ava said, “About six feet, crew cut, tac pants. Cop vibe. Asshole. Agent Boyle?”

Her eyes widened.

“Should I take that as a yes?”

Nod.

A thrill skittered up her back. Jesus. He’d been here. Jesus Christ.

“Is he still here?”

Headshake.

Goddamnit . The voice in her head sounded a lot like her dad’s.

The next question threatened to stick in her throat, but she thought of Boyle here, of Regina – picturing a younger, healthier Dee – and let the quiet fury power her through. “Did he have a little boy with him? Has there been a little boy here at all in the past few days?”

The girl’s eyes bugged . She made a choked sound.

“Was there? Is he still here? What did–”

A quick, soft series of raps sounded at the door, and a hissed, “It’s me.”

Damn it. But she hustled to the door and threw the locks. Tenny in turn threw himself into the room, slammed the door, and relocked it.

“What?” Ava demanded.

Tenny was a little out of breath from hurrying, but didn’t appear panicked. Did he get panicked? Probably not unless it involved Reese.

“I checked everywhere,” he said. “Walked in on more than a few scenes I’d rather scrub from my memory.” He shook his head. “Even the attic. But unless there’s a trapdoor in the floorboards somewhere, Remy’s not here.”

“What about the carriage house?”

“We’ll have to check it later, because I also found their security setup. They’ve got cameras in every room. I incapacitated the man on watch, and nicked the tapes.” He held up a handful of flash drives. “We can go.”

For the first time all afternoon, Ava grinned. “Damn. You’re good.”

“Yes, I know. But we should go, and out the window and across the roof, because there are five guys as big as your husband on my heels and they–”

Someone pounded on the door.

“We should go,” Ava said. “Right.” And they went.

~*~

“Have they texted?” Alex asked for the fifth time in twenty minutes. “They were supposed to text the second they got back out on the street.” He’d never paced so much in his life, moving back and forth across the hotel room now, hands on his hips, whole body tight with nervous energy.

Reese held up his phone to show the blank screen. “Not yet.” He didn’t sound bothered.

“It’s a delicate operation,” Maggie said, doing a valiant job of sounding calm. He could see the faint tremble of her lower lip, though, and thought she was fighting not to bite down on it.

“Yeah, and Ava’s number one, not a spy, and number two, in a very delicate state of mind.”

Colin’s brows jumped in silent agreement.

Maggie said, “Hey.”

“Maybe ‘delicate’ is the wrong word,” Alex allowed. “Maybe I should say ‘out of her goddamn mind.’”

Maggie’s eyes flashed, and some deep-seated part of him that would always be the son of a formidable woman quailed beneath her look.

Before she could light into him, Reese shrugged and said, “She’ll be fine. She’s smart, and Tenny’s…Tenny.”

His phone screen pinged and lit up, and he scanned it. “They’re out and headed back.”

Colin let out a deep breath. “Thank Christ.”

Alex’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached for it in a hurry, hoping it was Dandridge with an update on the school front. Instead, the screen read Mom . He hit decline with a twinge of guilt, but he couldn’t afford to be playing a round of hi, baby, how are you, how’s work, fine, how are you.

But before he could put the phone away, it rang again. And then again. And again.

Dread pooled in his belly. Tina wasn’t the sort of mother who hassled.

“You gonna get that?” Colin asked, annoyed.

Alex thumbed to answer. “Hey, Mom.”

There was a pause. Then: “Hi, honey.” Her voice was friendly, but the timber of it was all wrong. Too high, stressed, but like she was trying to play it cool. “How are you?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t a mother call her son?” Her laugh was hollow. “I heard you might be in town. Is that right?”

On the other end of the line, he heard movement, a low hiss of a voice that wasn’t Tina’s.

“Am I on speaker phone?” he asked.

“No.”

That voice hissed something else he couldn’t make out.

“Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Is someone with you who shouldn’t be?”

“Uh–” She swallowed audibly. “Uh-huh.”

“Fuck. Okay. Don’t panic. Stay there.”

“That’s sounds great, hon,” she said, and bless her heart, she was doing a good job at feigning brightness. “I’ll see you soon.”

Three faces looked at him expectantly, and for a moment, blood rushing to his head, pulse filling his ears until he could no longer hear the traffic outside or their neighbor’s too-loud TV, he wondered if this was a little like what Ava had felt when she arrived at the school and learned that Remy was missing. No: been taken . His lips were numb, and panic spread like pins and needles across his skin, blanketing, but not yet engaging his adrenal glands.

Maggie sat forward. “What is it?”

When he tried to swallow, he realized his mouth was hanging open. “I’m pretty sure Boyle’s holding my mom hostage.”

~*~

When Tina told the crazy bitch holding the gun on her that Alex had agreed to come, she grinned broader than ever, makeup caking in the lines around her eyes, and stepped back to lean against the front of the sink. Gun still trained on Tina’s chest, she dug her own phone out of her cleavage and dialed.

“Hey, baby doll,” she greeted whoever was on the other end of the line. She smirked. “You’ll never guess who I’m having a little chat with.”

The words were muffled, but Tina could tell it was a man on the phone, his tone one of flat dismissal.

“No, wait, wait.” The woman’s smirk fell. “No, hey, listen. This is good. I figured out how to get that agent to come to you. I’m sitting here with his mama, and–”

“What the fuck?” He must have shouted, because the words came through clear, if a little tinny. “Are you fucking kidding me–”

“Harlan–”

“–stupid fucking bitch!”

The blonde’s face paled beneath her screen of orange makeup, and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Tina almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

Mostly, she was watching the way the gun barrel drooped a fraction as the blonde blinked rapidly and shrank away from the screams issuing from the phone. She drew it back from her ear, and Tina heard, “Stay there and don’t do anything until I get there!” Then the call shut off.

The blonde held the phone out before her as if it was a dead rat, breathing in sharp little huffs through her parted lips.

“Tough break,” Tina said. “That sounded rough.”

“Shut up!” the blonde shrieked. The hand with the phone fell to her side, and she extended the other forward, gun leveling, if shaking. “You sit there, and you shut up until he gets here.” The smile returned, too sharp at the edges and manic around the teeth. “You won’t be such a smartass when Harlan shoots your baby boy, will you?”