It becomes your prison.

Her poor father.

But none of this mattered anymore. Not really. It was in the past. Her father’s pain was over. To be the best daughter she could be, to honor his memory or offer whatever comfort you could offer to the dead, she had to be the best cop she could be.

That meant figuring a way to nail Cozone.

Her cell phone buzzed as she exited the park on the west side. It was Chaz.

“Were you just here?”

“Sorry, yeah. I was with the captain.”

“He told me you’re coming back.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“I’d like that.”

“Me too.”

“But that isn’t why I called,” Chaz said. “I’m working the missing people angle like you asked. What I have is only preliminary.”

“But?”

“I have eleven missing adults, including Dana Phelps, Gerard Remington, and Martha Paquet, across four states. All had recently met someone online.”

The hairs on her neck stood up. “My God.”

“I know, right?”

“Did you contact ADIC Keiser?” she asked.

“I sent it to his point man. They’re going to dive into it further. But eleven missing, Kat. I mean . . .”

Chaz just left it at that.

There was nothing more that needed to be said. The feds would know what to do now. They had done more than their part here. Kat hung up the phone as she crossed onto 67th Street. That was when she saw the ruckus down at the Columbus Avenue corner.

What the . . . ?

She broke into a sprint. As she got closer, she could see Brandon Phelps struggling. Someone was trying to pull him into the back of an SUV.

 • • •

The old dog ran a few steps into the house, almost sliding on the mix of hardwood floors and blood, and kept barking at Dana.

She knew, of course, what that meant. Juicehead—the computer guy she had just killed had called him Reynaldo on the phone—would hear the distress in his beloved dog’s bark. He would hurry back here.

Her first thought was to hide.

But that was not going to happen.

A strange calmness spread across her. She still knew what she had to do.

She had to save her son.

There was no mobile phone in sight. The only phone she could see, the only one on the desk, was a regular gray house phone connected into the back of the computer. It wasn’t portable. If she wanted to use it, she would have to stay where she was. In plain view.

So be it.

She lifted the phone, put it to her ear, and dialed her son’s phone number. Her hand shook so badly that she almost misdialed.

A voice shouted, “Bo!”

It was Reynaldo. He wasn’t far away. It would be only a matter of time. Still, she had no choice. From what she had overheard, Titus was planning on grabbing her son. She had to stop him. Nothing else mattered. There was no question, no regret, no hesitation.

The phone began to ring. Dana braced herself, but when she heard her son say, “Hello?” she almost lost it.

Footsteps pounded heavily on the porch now. Bo stopped barking and trotted toward his master.

No time left.

“Brandon, listen to me.”

She heard him gasp. “Mom? I’m almost at the car.”

“No!”

Reynaldo shouted, “Bo!” again.

“What was that?” Brandon asked. “Mom?”

Her hand tightened on the receiver. “Don’t get in the car!”

“I don’t un—”

Reynaldo would be at the door any second now.

“Run, Brandon! Just run!”

 • • •

Kat pulled out her gun and sprinted down the block.

In the distance, she could see Brandon was putting up a good struggle, almost breaking free. Someone on the street came over to help him, but then the driver of the SUV got out.

He had a gun.

Pedestrians began to scream. Kat yelled, “Freeze!” but the distance and the screams drowned her out. The Good Samaritans backed away. The driver hurried around toward Brandon.

Kat saw him lift the gun and bring it down hard on Brandon’s head.

The struggle ended.

Brandon fell inside. The back door slammed shut.

The driver hurried back toward his door. Kat was getting closer now. She was about to take a shot at him, but something akin to instinct made her pull up. There were too many civilians on the street to risk a gun battle, and even if she got lucky and hit him, whoever was in the backseat—whoever had grabbed Brandon—could be armed too.

So what to do?

The black SUV quickly shot out and made the left onto Columbus Avenue.

Kat spotted a man getting out of a gray Ford Fusion. She flashed her badge and said, “I’m commandeering this car.”

The man made a face. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re not taking my car—”

Without breaking stride, Kat showed him the gun. He raised his hands. She grabbed the keys from his right hand and hopped into the car.

A minute later, she was heading down 67th Street behind the SUV.

She grabbed the cell phone and called Chaz. “I’m following a black SUV, turning right on Broadway at 67th Street.”

She gave him the license plate and quickly filled him in on what had happened.

“Someone on the street is probably already calling nine-one-one,” Chaz said.

“Right, look, make sure they keep all marked squad cars away. I don’t want them spooked.”

“You have a plan?”

“I do,” Kat said. “Call the FBI. Tell them what’s up. Let them get a chopper in the air. I’ll keep tailing them.”

 • • •

Sitting in the back of the SUV, Brandon was still dazed from the blow to his head. Titus pointed his gun at him.

“Brandon?”

“Where’s my mother?”

“You’ll see her soon enough. For now, I want you to stay still. If you do something I don’t like, your mother will be killed immediately. Do you understand?”

Brandon nodded and stayed still.

Titus was nervous as they crossed the George Washington Bridge. He feared that the police might be on them, that someone who had witnessed Clem’s exuberance on 67th Street might have notified the authorities. But the traffic had been slim on the West Side Highway. The ride took less than fifteen minutes, not enough time, Titus surmised, to start mounting a full-fledged APB on their SUV. Still, Titus had Clem pull over at the Teaneck Marriott right off Route 95. He debated stealing another car, but it would be better to just change license plates. They found another black SUV parked in the back and using a battery-operated screwdriver, Clem switched plates in a matter of seconds.

They drove back onto the New Jersey Turnpike and headed south toward the farm.

 • • •

“Do they have the chopper up?” Kat asked.

“They said it’ll take another five minutes.”

“Okay, good,” she said. Then: “Wait, hold up.”

“What?”

“They just pulled into the Marriott.”

“Maybe that’s where they’re staying.”

“Let the feds know.”

She took the ramp, staying two cars behind them. She saw them pull into the lot and circle toward the back. She stopped on the side, inching her way so that she had an angle but could stay out of sight.

The driver got out. She considered making a move, right here and now, but as long as she couldn’t see what was going on with Brandon in the back, it would be too risky. She waited and watched.

A minute later, she was on the line again with Chaz.

“They just switched license plates and headed back onto the road.”

“Which way?”

“South. Looks like they’re getting on the New Jersey Turnpike.”

 • • •

Reynaldo ran with everything he had toward Bo’s bark.

If that woman has done something to Bo, if she has so much as touched a hair on his head . . .

Reynaldo now wanted her to die slowly.

Bo was still barking when Reynaldo reached the clearing. His legs pumped hard as he ran with everything he had toward the house. He leapt the steps, landing hard on the wraparound porch.

Bo had stopped barking.

Oh God, oh God, please don’t let anything happen to . . .