Estabrook nodded with satisfaction. “Good.”

Fletcher’s gray eyes narrowed slightly. “You must give up this quest for revenge. Cut your losses, Mr. Estabrook. Move on. I’ll help you.”

“I’ve never run from a fight.”

“Simon Cahill and John March aren’t fools. They’re out of your reach, at least for the moment.”

Estabrook sucked in another sharp breath and took a menacing step toward the Brit. “No one is out of my reach.”

“Torment them from a distance if you must,” Fletcher said, still impassive, “but it’s my professional advice that you leave this place now. Let me get you out of here.”

“I don’t need your help.” Estabrook bent down, peering at Abigail, her back against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. “I should have hit you harder.”

A half-dozen retorts popped into her head. Being around Bob O’Reilly for eight years had taught her to be quick with remarks, but she knew that in this situation she had to choose her words carefully. “You hit me plenty hard enough.”

Estabrook stretched his fingers and stood up straight again.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Abigail nodded to his swollen hand. “Hitting someone. You don’t expect how hard bones are. Scoop almost broke his hand once in a fight.”

He ignored her. “Your new friend Keira Sullivan has the luck of the Irish. She escaped her serial killer in June and two nights ago in Ireland she escaped-well, she escaped an idiot, obviously.”

“Bassette’s work,” Fletcher said from the doorway.

“Ah.” Abigail tasted blood in her mouth but tried not to react to Estabrook’s taunts. “Hired the wrong man in Ireland, did you?”

“Keira’s luck will run out in due course,” Estabrook said, completely calm now. “I’m patient. I didn’t become a successful hedge-fund manager by being impatient. In a way, it’s just as well my man failed. Simon was already in Boston.”

“You didn’t send one incompetent man to kill both him and Keira-”

“No. I didn’t.”

His smirk, the way he studied her, made Abigail sick to her stomach. “You wanted Simon to find Keira’s body and know you’d killed her. Monster.”

He smiled knowingly. “Simon was in the room with your father when we called. They’re suffering right now. Both of them. That does please me. It’s sufficient for the moment.”

“You should listen to Fletcher and let me go.”

Abigail felt her energy draining out of her, and she focused on a crack in the linoleum, aware of Estabrook watching her, enjoying her suffering.

He examined a Spider-Man poster, torn on the edges, slightly yellowed. “Tell me, Detective, why did your father leave the Boston Police Department after Deirdre McCarthy’s murder?”

Estabrook’s fascination with her father was unnerving, but she reminded herself it wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise was his willingness to risk his freedom and his millions to bloody his hands with revenge. But it definitely was more than that. She thought Fletcher had seen it, too. Her father was a fresh challenge. A new death-defying adventure, and an excuse to commit violence himself.

Abigail kept her voice matter-of-fact. “I don’t know that my father’s decision to leave the department had anything to do with Deirdre McCarthy’s murder.”

“He didn’t like the blood. The violence of murder.” Estabrook moved to another superhero poster and glanced down at her. “The suffering. He wanted to be at a distance.”

“It was a career move,” Abigail said, taking any drama out of her father’s decision. Not that she had any real idea why he’d chosen to leave the police department thirty years ago. They’d never discussed his reasoning. “He earned a law degree and decided to join the FBI. He’s not God. He’s just a man doing a job.”

“Was he just doing his job when Simon Cahill’s father was executed?”

Abigail didn’t answer. Estabrook was at a Batman poster now. Bob liked to tease Owen, calling him Batman and saying he probably had a Batmobile stowed away at the Fast Rescue headquarters in Austin. She pushed back thoughts of the two of them, how they’d react to her kidnapping, the call she’d been forced to make-her cries of pain and anguish. Bob would be tight-lipped and chew one piece of gum after another as he focused on his job. Owen would figure out what he could do. It wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t law enforcement.

Estabrook abandoned the posters and squatted in front of her. He seemed unaffected by the stress of the past two days-the past two months. “Was your father just doing his job when Shauna Morrigan was murdered the same summer that Deirdre McCarthy was kidnapped and tortured?”

Abigail’s stomach lurched. “I don’t know-”

“Shauna Morrigan was Lizzie Rush’s Irish mother.”

She tried to look confused. “The Rushes are in the hotel business. I’ve never met Lizzie, but she’s got nothing to do with any of this.” But Abigail didn’t believe that. She ran the tip of her pinkie along her lower lip, feeling the cracks, the coagulating blood. “She’s not in law enforcement. My father, Simon, Bob, Scoop. We’re pros. Never mind anyone else. Deal with us.”

“Lizzie loves Maine. This is her family’s house. It’s so simple compared to the luxury hotels they own. They pamper their guests, but not themselves.” Estabrook smiled. “She’s here, or she will be soon. She’ll hope I’ve come.”

“Why?”

“Lizzie knows, at least deep down, that I can help her find peace. She knows I can help her confront her anger through decisive action.”

“You want her as your minion,” Abigail said tiredly.

“Very good, Detective.” Estabrook smiled nastily at her. “You do remember your lessons on evil. There’s only one Lucifer. One devil.” He turned abruptly to Fletcher. “See to Detective Browning. Then find Lizzie and bring her to me. She has a cottage farther down the rocks. She loves to spend time there alone. With all that’s gone on-” He inhaled through his nose. “She’ll be there.”

Fletcher stood up from the door. “You should listen to me, mate. Vengeance is a temporary high. When it’s over, you’ve nothing to show for it. You’re left with an empty hand.”

“I don’t plan for it to end with this one flurry of activity. I’m looking to a new beginning. A new way of life.” Estabrook started for the door, all business now. “Are you any closer to learning who informed on me to the FBI?”

Fletcher shrugged. “What difference does it make now? Because you couldn’t resist making that call tonight, the FBI knows you have Detective Browning. They’re not going to be diverted, thinking your friends in the drug cartels could be responsible.”

“I could have been forced to hit her under duress.”

“Perhaps, but it’s not what you want. You want John March to know you’re responsible for his daughter’s predicament. You want him to know you have her and can do as you please with her. And that, mate,” Fletcher said as he approached Abigail, “is what will get you killed or sentenced to a long stretch in prison.”

Estabrook licked his injured knuckles. “You knew my arrest was imminent when you came to me in Las Vegas, didn’t you? You said you’d get me out if I got into trouble. You already knew I couldn’t trust Simon and didn’t tell me.”

Fletcher glanced back at him. “You’re right. I didn’t tell you. It would have made no difference. I was already too late to warn you properly. The FBI had you nailed.”

“You wanted money.”

“You didn’t have to hire me. You did because you understood that our interests are aligned.”

“Something you should keep in mind now,” Estabrook said stonily.

Once Estabrook was gone, Fletcher handed Abigail a folded black bandanna. “You’re dehydrated. Try to keep some water down.”

She took the bandanna and dabbed it to her bloody face. She studied the pencil markings on the wall, names written next to them:

Whit. Harlan. Lizzie. Jeremiah. Justin.

Children’s heights.

“I want children,” Abigail whispered. “Do you, Mr. Fletcher?”