Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

H azel’s gone.

The words still punched Moose, even twenty minutes later as he lined up on the beach for takeoff.

Hazel’s gone.

He glanced at Flynn behind him and she appeared wrecked. She should probably figure out how to reframe a declaration like that.

Gone as in missing , not dead.

For one excruciatingly long moment, no one had moved, and then Tillie had doubled over and keened, a terrible sound from her soul that ripped him from his shock.

“What— what? ” He’d put his arms around Tillie, his attention on Flynn as Axel came out of the kitchen. “Gone?”

“Oh—wow—no, not gone. Taken . I mean, she’s not . . . Tillie—no, she’s alive. I mean—the social worker said that she saw a man take her.”

“She’s not dead,” Axel said. “You’re sure.”

Flynn looked at him. “I’m reading a text! I wasn’t there. Okay, hold on. I’ll call Dawson.”

She walked out to the deck, and Moose pulled Tillie up, clamped his arms back around her. “It’ll be okay, Til. It’ll be okay?—”

And that’s when she hit him.

She probably hadn’t meant to hurt him—she hadn’t put a fist to his face or a punch to his gut. She just slammed her hands against his chest, pushing him away.

But it felt like a hit, something brutal and dark that filled his soul. Especially when he read the look in her eyes. Heard her low, broken words. “You promised.”

“Tillie.”

“You promised she’d be okay?—”

“I didn’t promise.” Had he? “And no one saw this coming?—”

“I saw this coming!” She hit her own chest now and stepped away from him. “I know Rigger. I know the man he is and the man he’s not, and I can tell you right now that the guy we see on the television weeping over his lost child is a murderer . And he’s going to murder Hazel.”

“He’s not going to murder Hazel. Everyone is watching him,” Axel said.

Tillie gave him a look that threatened his own murder.

“This isn’t my fault either, Tillie, or Flynn’s or Moose’s.” Axel kept his voice low. “Although I can understand how you might think that. How you might be feeling betrayed right now. But every one of us is on your side.”

“No.” She shook her head. “No one is on my side. No one understands what it feels like to be responsible for someone only to . . . to let something terrible happen to them!”

Axel stiffened, and Moose looked at him, then shook his head. Nope, now was not the time to bring up Aven, or their history watching someone they loved disappear only to be murdered.

Especially not that last part.

“Let’s get back to Anchorage,” Moose said. He reached out again for Tillie, but she jerked away from him.

Held up her hands.

Then she turned and walked into the bedroom, shut the door.

He took a breath.

“This is not your fault, bro.” Axel, still unmoving.

“Feels like it could be.”

“Now who’s blame casting?”

Moose frowned.

“Just a little of your own coming back at you. I’m not to blame for Aven’s death any more than you are for Hazel’s disappearance. Bad people do bad things.”

“And good people stop them.”

“Or try to. But only one person can be in all places at all times. And last time I checked, you’re not omnipresent.”

Moose held up his hand. “Okay, I get it.” He headed up the stairs. “We leave in ten.”

He made it back down in five, pulling on his boots and a hat, throwing his toiletries in his backpack and shouldering it.

Axel emerged from his room, carrying his go-bag, and Flynn came inside, staring at her phone. She looked up at them. “Okay, so Dawson said the social worker is on her way to the hospital. She’s not badly injured, but he’s going over there to detain her until I get there.” She pocketed her phone. “But we have a problem, of course.”

Tillie had come out of her room. Flynn swallowed.

“Tell us,” Moose said.

“The warrant from Florida has come in. Tillie can’t go to the hospital with us. Not without getting arrested.”

“Then arrest me.” Tillie was dressed and ready to leave.

Moose rounded on her. “What?”

“If you arrest me, then can I go with you to talk to the social worker?”

Flynn drew in a breath. “I think I can work that out.”

“Then arrest me.” She held out her hands.

Moose grabbed her wrists, pushed them down. “Let’s just go.”

He picked up his backpack even as she jerked her wrists from his grip and headed past him outside.

Axel left, then Flynn, grabbing her jacket and shoes; then Moose closed up the cabin and jogged down to the plane.

Axel grabbed his gear while Moose did a preflight walkaround and got in.

Another check, then he started the prop, and in a moment they were airborne.

Twenty minutes later, Moose was glad for the terrible roar of the motor, the focus on landing safely rather than the roaring deep in his heart.

Please, God, rescue Tillie.

Axel was on his phone, texting, Anchorage in sight below.

The sun had risen high now, shining on the Knik Arm, on the seaplanes in the water near Merrill Field. Moose called in to the tower, and by the time he landed, he spotted Shep and London standing near the Tooth, London’s arms folded over her chest, looking like she and Shep were in a discussion.

Or a fight.

Boo’s Rogue was parked next to London’s orange Subaru Crosstrek in front.

He taxied toward their Quonset hut.

Axel glanced at Moose. “Boo called a friend in the ER. The social worker—her name is Donna—just arrived. Dawson is on his way.”

As Moose shut down the plane, Axel got out.

Shep came up. “I’ll get the plane sorted and tied down.”

Moose climbed down from the cockpit. “I’m going to the hospital with Flynn and Tillie.”

London had walked up to Tillie, was talking with her. Tillie wouldn’t look at him.

“Axel said that Tillie told Flynn to arrest her.”

“Yep.” He still couldn’t get that out of his head.

“Not a bad idea, considering.”

Moose stared at him.

“How else is she going to get to Florida? There’s a warrant out for her arrest—she’s not getting on a plane or across the border. And don’t tell me you weren’t thinking of doing something crazy like driving—or flying—her down there to get Hazel.”

Moose ran a hand behind his neck.

“Yep, that’s what I thought.” Shep shook his head. “You might want to consider that you’re not the only one who has something at stake here with Air One.”

Oh.

Shep put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re with you. But—and I never thought I’d have to tell you this, Moose—be smart.”

Shep walked over to the plane just as Flynn and Tillie got into Axel’s Yukon.

Again, Tillie didn’t look at him.

Moose went inside and grabbed his truck keys, and by the time he got out, Shep and London were pushing the plane into the hangar to sit beside the chopper.

He called Ridge on the way to the hospital to give him an update.

“I know,” Ridge said. “I talked with our family law department, and we’re working on a recommendation to the court for suspended custody.”

“What are my options regarding Tillie’s bail?” Moose pulled into the ER parking lot.

A beat.

“Right. I reviewed the lawsuit documents. The plaintiff asked the court to freeze your assets so you can’t sell before the judgment is rendered. If you take out a lien against those to post bail, that might red-flag the courts to allow the injunction. They could shut you down while you wait for the case to be heard.”

“Okay, thanks.” Moose got out, Shep’s words in his ears. “Be smart.”

And as he walked into the ER, Axel’s words followed him in.

“If you want to follow God’s plan—and I can guarantee you that he has a plan here—you can’t panic. And you can’t fight without the armor of God. And that starts with the shield of faith guarding your heart.”

He stopped outside the ER, spotting Tillie and Flynn.

Tillie stood, handcuffs binding her hands. So, clearly Flynn had solved the running problem.

They were talking with a middle-aged woman, her head bandaged, pretty banged up, evidenced by the splint on her arm. Tillie nodded, her jaw tight, and the dark, hollowed expression she wore threatened to tear him asunder.

“Here’s a coffee.” Axel walked up to him. “It’s practically tar, so it should hold you up.” He carried his own cup. “Sorry about the cuffs, but it was Flynn’s only answer to the fact that she was walking in with the suspect. If she didn’t cuff her, someone would have, so . . .”

“It’s okay. I know she’s trying to help.”

“About that.” He took a sip of coffee, as if fortifying himself. “Tillie is pretty sure that Rigger is taking Hazel to Florida. Flynn has people watching the airport, but at least three flights have already left for the lower forty-eight, and Donna was trapped in her car for a good hour before emergency services found her. It’s possible he already left.” He shook his head. “Flynn thinks she can talk to the FBI, see if they’ll let her accompany Tillie to Florida, hand her off to authorities there. She could do some legwork with the local PD in Miami.”

Moose’s gut tightened on the words. This couldn’t be happening.

As he watched, Donna retrieved a plastic bag and handed it to Tillie. Tillie opened it and pulled out Hazel’ s floppy, worn dog.

She pressed her face into it, and he had to turn away.

He looked at Axel. “So, you’re going to let Flynn go by herself?”

“She’s not a puppy. I think she can handle herself,” Axel said.

“Really?”

“Okay, I’ll bite—what are you thinking?”

Shep came through the front doors of the hospital followed by London and then Boo. To Moose’s surprise, Oaken followed Boo in.

They walked up to Moose.

Considered him.

“I’m going to Florida,” he said, finally. “Maybe there is nothing I can do. But Tillie is all alone, and I just . . .”

Shep stepped up to him. “This is not on you. You did not fail Tillie. You just did what you felt you were supposed to at the time.” He glanced at London.

Then why did everything Moose do backfire?

At the heart of it, no matter what he did, it crashed down over him. Buried him.

He probably wore that on his face, because Shep shook his head. “You’ve got to stop thinking all this is yours. Air One. Whatever happens with Tillie.”

“‘Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.’” London said quietly.

Moose looked at her.

London met his gaze, her voice soft. “What we forget about those verses is the first part. Come to me . Believe me. Believe in my unfailing love. Unfailing . You do not need to rescue the world, Moose, because Jesus already has. You cannot fail him, because you already have , and he’s already redeemed you. So get over yourself.”

He stared at her.

“Right?” Shep said.

Moose sighed. “ I gave her my word.”

“You always give people your word, whether you say it or not, Moose,” said Axel. “But it’s not your word to give.”

Moose drew in a breath. “ Come to me. ”

He looked at Tillie, clutching the stuffed dog. “I can’t help but think I’m supposed to follow her.”

Silence.

“Okay, then just ask us, man,” Shep said.

Moose looked at his team, at Shep and London, Boo and Axel, and even Oaken, and right then, it hit him.

He’d been so concerned about failing his team that he’d forgotten he was part of the team too. He carried their burdens, but . . . they also carried his.

“I know you don’t do asking for help, bro,” Axel said. “But ‘Those who cling to worthless idols turn away from God’s love for them.’ Something Mom always says, right? It keeps coming back me.”

Moose nodded. “Yeah.” Idols, like his own pride. His word, his promises had become idols. Moose to the rescue.

He did have a savior complex.

And then his words to Tillie found him. “You have to be willing to be rescued. You can’t rescue yourself. And that starts with acknowledging that you need rescue . ”

His team looked at him. “Fine. I . . . I could use some . . . help.”

“See, bro, that wasn’t so hard,” said Axel, his hand on Moose’s shoulder. He winked.

“As luck would have it, my mom has a place in Miami,” Oaken said.

Moose didn’t know why, but suddenly the terrible knot in his chest eased, and for a moment, he simply breathed.

And then Tillie and Flynn came walking out.

“I need to take her to the station for booking. And then . . .”

“And then we’ll see you in Florida,” Moose said.

Tillie looked up at him. Stopped. “No.”

He stilled.

“I’m not your responsibility anymore, Moose. Don’t follow me. This is goodbye.”

“Tillie—”

She turned and walked away.

It’ll be okay . This time, as he watched her go, he didn’t say the words.

But he meant them.

There were bigger things at stake than the fact that London had decided not to talk to him. But it felt big as Shep stood in the hangar this morning, waiting for Moose to show up.

He drove to the Tooth, his fight with London last night still in his head, pretty sure that he should have called her or shown up on her doorstep to rewind their conversation. . . .

“Stay. Away. From. Me.”

Yep, that was a pretty clear, don’t call me .” He’d gone back to his place and sat in the darkness overlooking the sound, the aloneness of his place thundering through him.

Along, of course, with Colt’s words. “I do know that she can’t go missing. And if she does, then we’re back at ground zero. So keep her close.”

Hard to do that when she wasn’t talking to him.

So he’d expected her folded arms and cold shoulder today when he arrived at the hangar after Moose’s call.

But he didn’t have to like it. “C’mon, London. Don’t be that way.” He’d walked up to her, waiting with her as Boo went into the Tooth, probably to check on medical supplies. He didn’t know what he expected from Moose’s cryptic call about Hazel being missing, and that had him stirred up too. So he and London needed to solve this thing between them and get back to work.

Focus on the work.

“Shep. Just leave it.” She wore her blonde hair back in a ponytail, a pair of black leggings, a pullover, and a pair of tennis shoes.

“No. I know you’re angry with me, and I get that. I should have told you about Colt and him asking me to keep an eye on you. But I thought . . . well, I didn’t think you’d like knowing?—”

“That you were spying on me?”

“I wasn’t?—”

“What would you call it, then? Babysitting? Bodyguarding?”

Okay, mouth closed. He watched Moose’s plane circle in the air, coming around for a landing, and she looked at him.

“If I’m the spy you are accusing me of being, certainly I can take care of myself.”

It might be a good thing he couldn’t see her eyes through those sunglasses.

“Yes. True. And you can keep your secrets, London. I don’t need to know them. But . . . I was trying to do right by you. We did have . . .” A connection. A moment . But clearly she’d wiped their past from her mind. He swallowed. “You’re not just anybody to me. So yes, I agreed to keep an eye on you. Like a friend would.”

“And report my activities to Colt?”

“Nope. None of that. Just . . . making sure you . . . were all right.”

Her chest rose and fell.

Then she nodded. Looked away.

Moose’s plane landed and started taxiing toward them.

“Coming here has been the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I don’t want to—” She looked at him. “I don’t want to think that it’s not real.”

Not real .

He didn’t have the faintest idea what that meant, but he couldn’t help but drop his voice, take a step toward her. “It’s real, London. Everything that . . . everything that I feel for you is real.”

She pursed her lips as if considering her words.

“Please, London, can’t we at least be friends?—”

“Yes.” She hadn’t moved, her arms still folded, but her voice changed, soft, almost regretful.

He stilled as the plane pulled into the Quonset.

“I’m sorry, Shep. I . . . the thing is, I’ve had people lie to me before?—”

“She’s been betrayed before . ” His jaw tightened.

“But I want to trust you. You’ve been . . .” She sighed. “Yes. We can be friends. But no more secrets.”

He had nothing for that.

The plane stopped and Shep walked over. “I’ll get the plane sorted and tied down.”

And it seemed she meant it because, six hours later, as he boarded the flight to Seattle from Anchorage, he spotted London in a seat near the window. His seat, according to his ticket.

“You’re in my seat.”

She patted the seat next to her. Smiled.

Huh .

He put his suitcase in the overhead compartment, then sat down.

Fine. “Okay, just to clear the air, yes, there are things about my past that . . . I don’t want to talk about. And Colt had his reasons for . . . what he asked you to do. But that’s in the past. And this is a new start, and—” She turned to him, her eyes searching his. “I trust you, Shep. I have since you saved my life.”

“I think you saved my life.”

She gave a half laugh. “Okay, so we saved each other. And yes, I think about those three days . . . more than you know.” She touched his hand. “Because of you, I found faith again, and hope, and I need to remember that. So yes, we’re friends.” She smiled then, her gaze warm.

Shoot . Now they were right back in the unrequited romantic tragedy.

“Now, what movie are we going to watch?”

And just like that, it was over. And he saw it afresh, just like he had three years ago, when rescuers had finally lifted the debris from their ice cave and light had pierced the darkness.

Light. Hope.

Tomorrow.

This time, he wasn’t letting it get away.

She reached over to his screen and scrolled through the movies. “Let’s watch the new Mission Impossible movie.” They laughed together, and during the layover, bought enough snacks and treats for the entire team—which worked out, since a storm front preceded them across the United States and they had to bed down in the Chicago O’Hare airport.

Even then, lying on a bank of seats, his head on his suitcase, London across from him, this felt like some sort of crazy new beginning.

See, Colt . Not all of his darkest fears came true.

Everything was going to be just fine.

She just knew that returning to Miami would bring out the demons.

Tillie stood outside the women’s detention center, her hair wet and pulled back in a hair tie, clutching the bag with Hazel’s stuffed puppy, feeling grimy to her soul. The words of her state-appointed defense attorney still hung in her head.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

There was more, of course, like her intent to use the defense of reasonable cause of action against domestic violence for her actions. Only problem was, the claim on that defense had expired about five years ago.

Which meant she was facing a felony in the third degree.

Alone.

She’d left behind the beauty and autumn redolence of Alaska for the stifling September heat of Florida. The sun was already drying her hair, sending sweat down her back. This was not the prettiest part of town—the skyscrapers of downtown rose in the distance, and across the street, a broken fence cordoned off a weedy track and field, an extension of the nearby high school. Down the street, a vacant lot littered with garbage was guarded by chain link, and an abandoned building covered in graffiti suggested an area forgotten. The persistent grind of construction from a nearby street cluttered the seasoned air.

And God picked a funny time to walk into her head—if it was God at all. “‘Because Tillie loves me,’ says the Lord, ‘I will rescue her. I will protect her, for she acknowledges my name.’”

Yeah. Well . . . Still, the thought of it pricked tears into her eyes. If she’d ever needed someone on her side . . .

She pinched her mouth at the memory of her words to Moose— “Don’t follow me. This is goodbye” —and hated the fact that down deep she hoped, desperately, that he’d be here, waiting for her.

She didn’t blame him for finally, finally , waking up to the truth.

She turned and headed down 7th Street, toward downtown. According to her lawyer, as the owner of the whole life policy, she could take out a loan against the cash value. She’d nearly maxed it out to pay her bond.

She’d used her one call on Roz, who had sent cash to a Western Union some six blocks from the detention center, and that, along with her old passport, the one under her real name, might score her a burner phone, and then an Uber to Miami Beach.

Maybe.

Her stomach roiled. She’d ignored the breakfast the detention center served this morning before the van took her to court for her arraignment with seven other women. She’ d looked at their faces, some of them bearing the effects of drug use or domestic trouble, and seen the life Pearl might have had if they hadn’t run.

So no, no regrets. But . . .

She passed a motorcycle rental place, mostly Harleys but also a couple old Suzukis with sale pricing, and an idea formed. Thank you, Arch Henry, for those lessons .

Arch. A fellow marine. He’d been a good friend after she’d moved to MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa. Handsome, a Gunnery Sergeant, looking to go spec ops. She’d left him behind when she’d deployed onto the USS San Antonio , and when she returned, he too had deployed.

Turning onto a side street, she walked through a couple blocks of hard-living neighborhoods with multifamily housing and a few homes surrounded by broken chain link. A dog ran out and snarled at her, and it dragged up memories of Hazel and Kip.

She picked up her pace, replaying her conversation with Flynn on the plane earlier.

“I never meant for it to get this far. I just wanted to keep Pearl and Hazel safe.”

In fact, she’d told Flynn a lot of things, including, “I know Rigger had a place in Miami Beach. I just don’t know where.”

Flynn had typed the information into her phone, and the fact that the woman had believed Tillie had given her the courage to not run. To submit to booking in Miami, to not curl into a ball and weep during her twelve-hour stay at the detention center.

To face the judge today in her orange jumpsuit.

She’d sort of half expected to see Flynn in court. But Flynn had made her no promises.

And frankly, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t up to Flynn—or even Moose—to keep her safe.

Tillie spotted the overpass and cut down the street to cross the river. Here the neighborhood turned upscale and clean, sleek, with gated apartment buildings on one side, cobble-roofed, gated townhomes on the other, and after a couple blocks, she picked up her pace, seeing the shopping center ahead.

A Winn-Dixie connected to a dollar store, with Western Union in the back.

She pulled out her passport and used it at the counter to withdraw the money Roz had sent her.

She headed out and bought new clothes—a pair of leggings, a black T-shirt, a pair of running shoes, a windbreaker, a hat, glasses, and a backpack.

Then she walked back to the motorcycle shop, slapped down cash, and haggled for a couple of used helmets. She put one on, strapped the other onto the back.

She’d forgotten the power of a motorcycle, the freedom of weaving in and around traffic as she took the back roads to the MacArthur Causeway over to Miami Beach. Here, the vibe turned to vacation, the tiny apartments bearing art deco styles, the neighborhoods deeply wooded with overhanging palm trees, and cars wedged into tiny spaces along quiet streets. Bicyclers rode alongside convertibles, and music pumped into the air, hip-hop mixing with pop, Adele versus Dr. Dre.

She slowed, stopping at a light, popping open her visor. Sweat layered her skin despite the breeze from the ride, and when the scent of street tacos found her, she angled the bike onto a side street and squeezed into a space between a couple other bikes.

Locking the helmets onto the seat, she piled her jacket into her backpack and headed over to the beachside walk.

The taco stand was set up across from a volleyball net, and after scoring a shrimp taco, she sat watching the players, barefoot, carefree. An old memory stirred up of her and Pearl sitting on the beach watching two-year-old Hazel play in the ocean, running into the waves and back, screaming, falling down sandy onto their blanket.

Wow, she’d made a mess of things. One stupid decision after another.

And now . . . what? She would restart the cycle. She and Hazel always looking over their shoulders. Never in a thousand years had she thought she’d someday end up a criminal.

“God is at work even if we don’t believe it.”

Axel sat down in her brain, and for a moment, she was back in the cabin.

“Or deserve it?”

“Especially if we don’t deserve it. Fact is, that’s his specialty. Rescuing the lost, the broken, the guilty.”

The criminals?

She finished the taco. Got up. And for some reason, headed out along the path, past the dunes to the long, creamy-white beach.

A few families lounged under umbrellas or played Frisbee in the sand with their children. More bobbed in the water. A few surfers rode boards in the waves. It felt like summer down here, although in Alaska, the kids had already started school.

Hazel should be in second grade, improving her reading, playing with friends, safe and not worried about where she was going to sleep.

Instead . . . what? Tillie didn’t even know how to start looking for her.

She walked down to the ocean, pulling up her hair and tying it back after the helmet had dislodged her ponytail. Then she took off her shoes, rolled up her leggings, and put her feet into the warm water.

She wanted to start over. To go back to the girl who’d played on the sand with her father. To trust and believe and . . .

She looked out over the water. “God completely spared my life and then . . . well, he wasn’t finished.”

This couldn’t be the way her life was supposed to end.

“What if there is a different perspective?”

“What kind of perspective?”

“Faith.”

Faith.

“Is that like hope?”

“Very much.”

She stared out over the blue to the sailboat on the horizon, the golden sun upon the water. The smell of freedom and life, the sound of laughter behind her. Yes, she wanted it. Hope. The calm that Moose had.

The faith.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky. God, please help me trust you. Because right now, all I can see is disaster. But I want to believe you can save me—save Hazel. Please help me to believe it. Please . . . rescue me.

The waves washed over her ankles, wetting her leggings, and she stepped back.

“Hey!”

The voice turned her just in time for her to see a Frisbee heading her direction. She ducked, then grabbed it from the air.

A man shouted at her. “Sorry!” He lifted his hand to a boy and started to run over to her.

But the boy reached her first. Preteen, in swim trunks and golden tousled hair. She handed him the Frisbee.

He stopped. “Hey. You look like that lady from Iron Maiden. The Steelrose.”

The man ran up, breathing hard. “Sorry. C’mon, bud.”

“Dad, this is Steelrose. I recognize her, and she has that tattoo too.”

She hadn’t thought about the small rose tattoo on the back of her neck for ages.

The man considered her for a moment, then grinned. “It is you. You’re one of my daughter’s heroes. The Iron Maiden is having semifinals this week, here in Miami, and she’s competing.”

Tillie stood, stunned. “What?”

“Can I get a picture?” The kid was backing up.

“Um—no . . . I gotta go.” She turned to the man. “Tell her to just . . . face the obstacle in front of her. Think out of the box and work to her strengths. And most of all, trust her training.”

“Cool.” The boy held up his fist.

She bumped it.

Trust her training .

The thought settled into her head as she walked back out onto the street and over to her bike. She’d driven to Miami Beach out of impulse, a tug from her conversation with Flynn. But she’d first trained in Hollywood, north of Miami.

The original Fight Factory.

She pulled on her helmet. If it’d started there, it could end there.

A1A, the highway along the beach, was just as clogged as she remembered, but she followed traffic all the way along the shoreline, past the high-rise resorts and along the cruise ports, past Surfside and North Beach and through Hanover Park. Somehow, being on the road loosened the stiffness inside her, the breeze off the ocean cool.

She passed the Newport Fishing Pier, more resorts on the water, and finally slowed as she reached Hollywood Beach.

Clean and bright, with towering beachside condos and overflowing bougainvillea along tall creamy-white walls. Shaggy palm trees against a crystalline blue sky. Convertibles pumping out a different kind of music—no more hip-hop, more Adele and Celine Dion.

She turned off from the barrier island and headed back over the causeway on the 820, reconnected with Highway 1, past the massive Hollywood Golf Club, and finally slowed as she came into the old neighborhood.

She took a left on Arthur and drove past two-story apartment complexes with tiny yards, a few multiunit single- story buildings, and as she turned onto 19th, tiny flat-roofed homes sitting on mini lots, painted orange or white, awnings over the windows to keep out the sun. She slowed in front of an adobe-looking townhome with a clay tiled roof and a tiny plastic kiddie pool in the yard. They’d had one when she lived here too.

“C’mon, we’ll pretend we’re at a resort.” Pearl, putting her entire lawn chair into the pool. “All we need is a hot guy with an umbrella drink.”

They had needed a lot more than that, but for a minute there, they’d been happy.

Tillie’s gaze went to the back deck area. She didn’t see a camera. Just a couple of metal lawn chairs and a snarled, dry hibiscus.

She turned at the end of the block, and there, across the street from the Romanian church, sat the original Fight Factory, with the hanging bags across the front windows and the three central sparring rings, the weight sets, and the wall of champions. Probably, hopefully, Rigger had taken down their picture together.

A few cars sat in the lot, and she drove by, not seeing Rigger’s Dodge Charger, but then again, that had been five years ago.

He probably drove something a little slicker now.

Still, she needed a place to hunker down and wait, so she pulled into the church lot, got off the bike, and sat under a palm tree.

She tucked herself in and waited. Tried not to think about Moose and the look on his face when she’d left him at the hospital. “This is goodbye.”

Wiped her cheeks.

Two hours later, as she debated finding another taco truck, a Lexus pulled up. And under the late afternoon sun, Rigger climbed out, wearing a pair of suit pants and an oxford, pressed and neat. Not a hint of a man who would run someone off the road and steal a little girl out of the back seat. But she’d listened to Donna’s account, and in the pit of her soul, she knew it’d been him.

He went into the building.

An hour later, as the sun sent shadows into the late hours, he came out. Got in his Lexus. Drove away.

And so did Tillie.

She stayed a ways back, weaving in and out of traffic, hiding behind trucks and cars, but always an eye on him, and followed him out of Hollywood, north to Fort Lauderdale and then—she just knew it—out to Las Olas Isles, with the multimillion-dollar estates, the canals, the tall palms, and gated yards. Driveways paved with cobblestone, where shiny Escalades parked for security alongside Ferraris and Astin Martins.

Rigger pulled into the driveway of a sleek-looking, flat-topped midcentury modern mansion that sat on a corner lot, with a wall of windows and a deck that wrapped around the entire top floor. On the main floor, slatted wooden privacy walls secured a walkway around the house, and beyond that, the entire yard of fake grass was gated with wrought iron. The wide-tiled driveway held at least two Escalades along with a massive garage. She drove around the block and spotted an expansive patio area under a rounded balcony that jutted from the house. Thick pillars held it up on either side.

Beyond that, a forty-foot three-story yacht sat at anchor at the canal dock. Men stood on the yacht, talking amidst armed guards stationed at the bow and stern.

As she watched, Rigger walked out of the house to the yacht. A dog followed him out, barking, and behind him, a little boy ran out, then cannonballed into the pool. The dog—a boxer, from the look of it—barked, worried, as the boy splashed to the edge. Then it turned to warn off the men on the boat as Rigger now glad-handed them.

A woman came out, tall, shapely, and bronzed—Courtney Baker. She wore a bikini and a wrap and sat down on the edge of the pool, splashing the little boy with her feet.

Aboard the boat, Rigger laughed, his hand on the shoulder of one of the men.

And all she could see was Rigger hitting Pearl.

Tillie looked up at the house’s windows, scanning them, and then the porch below, and then . . . in the fading darkness, a light went on in one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of a little girl standing in the window, staring out into the early evening dusk.

Tillie could make out her daughter’s frame anywhere.

I’m here, honey. I’m coming for you .

A black SUV drove by, probably someone’s protection detail, and she realized she’d been sitting too long. So she motored around the corner, then down the street, across the canal, studying the house from as many angles as she could see.

“Remember your training.”

A half hour until nightfall.

And then she was getting her daughter back.