brought it under her armpits and around her chest. She kept one hand on her dog as she reached for the photo, scratching his muzzle, and moving her fingers over the soft velvet of his triangular ears, trying to reassure him with her touch. By the time she turned back to Bishop, she had the towel secured and a hand coated with dog hair.
Kick’s eyes searched the photograph, stalling, battling for equilibrium. House. Car in the driveway. Plants on the deck. Backyard. What was she supposed to see?
The whir of the chopper was directly above them. She glanced up. It sounded like it was landing on the roof. Kick could hear it inside her head like a memory. She stole a peek at the Glock on the end table, useless to her. Bishop stood nearby, too close, his coiled calm an implied threat. Monster was limping in circles around them, gazing occasionally at the ceiling. Even her deaf dog could hear that racket.
The helicopter rotors were slowing, the sound becoming a dull throb. The chopper had landed and was cycling down. Whoever was up there, time was running out.
House. Car in the driveway. Plants on the deck. Backyard.
Wait. House.
She squinted at the photograph, at the second-floor window at the front of the house. The glass looked dark at first glance, but if you really looked you could see a shape, like a small face, like a child looking out. Kick snapped her head up at Bishop. He had his hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised. Shit. The photograph was trembling in her hands. She was doing it again, going down the maze. She could feel her skin start to tingle with excitement, the thrill of possibility, of hope. She lifted the photograph and peered at it closer, to convince herself that it was true, that her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. Because she knew that face. It was on her bedroom wall; it stared at her as she slept. She had studied it, committing it to memory, burning it into her brain, so she would always know that image, no matter how many years passed. There was no doubt in Kick’s mind that she was looking at Adam Rice. He was alive.
She didn’t know if Bishop was good or bad, trustworthy or not. Maybe it didn’t matter.
This was what she had been waiting for.
Her brain was already going a mile a minute. The white SUV in the driveway connected this house to Mia Turner’s abduction, so this was possible proof that Mia Turner and Adam Rice had been abducted by the same people.
She looked up from the photo. “What are you?” she asked Bishop.
Bishop stepped forward and lifted the photograph from her hands. “I used to sell weapons,” he said.
“As in guns?”
“Among other things,” he said.
“ ‘Other things’?”
Bishop shrugged. “I made a lot of money.” He held the satellite photograph up. “And a lot of friends with access to expensive toys.”
“I’ve never heard of you,” Kick said.
“That’s funny,” Bishop said with a faint smile. “Because I’ve heard of you.”
Kick didn’t know what to make of him at all. “You should have opened with that,” Kick said, indicating the photograph.
“I was planning on getting around to it,” Bishop said, walking back to the chair and picking up his jacket.
She noticed that he moved a little gingerly. “Did I hurt you?” she asked.
Bishop shrugged the blazer on. “Only a little,” he said.
“Next time I’ll know to do it harder,” Kick said.
“Next time I won’t give you the chance,” Bishop said.
Kick considered hitting him in the nuts again, right then and there. Instead, she did the next most aggressive thing that occurred to her: she peeled off the damp yellow towel, held it out at arm’s length, and let it drop.
Bishop didn’t react; he didn’t even avert his eyes.
Flummoxed, Kick stepped directly in front of him, stark naked; all hair and breasts and pubic hair, scrapes, bruises, and strained muscles. She drew herself up taller, shoulders back, feet apart. Except for the sound of Monster pawing
Kick’s eyes searched the photograph, stalling, battling for equilibrium. House. Car in the driveway. Plants on the deck. Backyard. What was she supposed to see?
The whir of the chopper was directly above them. She glanced up. It sounded like it was landing on the roof. Kick could hear it inside her head like a memory. She stole a peek at the Glock on the end table, useless to her. Bishop stood nearby, too close, his coiled calm an implied threat. Monster was limping in circles around them, gazing occasionally at the ceiling. Even her deaf dog could hear that racket.
The helicopter rotors were slowing, the sound becoming a dull throb. The chopper had landed and was cycling down. Whoever was up there, time was running out.
House. Car in the driveway. Plants on the deck. Backyard.
Wait. House.
She squinted at the photograph, at the second-floor window at the front of the house. The glass looked dark at first glance, but if you really looked you could see a shape, like a small face, like a child looking out. Kick snapped her head up at Bishop. He had his hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised. Shit. The photograph was trembling in her hands. She was doing it again, going down the maze. She could feel her skin start to tingle with excitement, the thrill of possibility, of hope. She lifted the photograph and peered at it closer, to convince herself that it was true, that her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. Because she knew that face. It was on her bedroom wall; it stared at her as she slept. She had studied it, committing it to memory, burning it into her brain, so she would always know that image, no matter how many years passed. There was no doubt in Kick’s mind that she was looking at Adam Rice. He was alive.
She didn’t know if Bishop was good or bad, trustworthy or not. Maybe it didn’t matter.
This was what she had been waiting for.
Her brain was already going a mile a minute. The white SUV in the driveway connected this house to Mia Turner’s abduction, so this was possible proof that Mia Turner and Adam Rice had been abducted by the same people.
She looked up from the photo. “What are you?” she asked Bishop.
Bishop stepped forward and lifted the photograph from her hands. “I used to sell weapons,” he said.
“As in guns?”
“Among other things,” he said.
“ ‘Other things’?”
Bishop shrugged. “I made a lot of money.” He held the satellite photograph up. “And a lot of friends with access to expensive toys.”
“I’ve never heard of you,” Kick said.
“That’s funny,” Bishop said with a faint smile. “Because I’ve heard of you.”
Kick didn’t know what to make of him at all. “You should have opened with that,” Kick said, indicating the photograph.
“I was planning on getting around to it,” Bishop said, walking back to the chair and picking up his jacket.
She noticed that he moved a little gingerly. “Did I hurt you?” she asked.
Bishop shrugged the blazer on. “Only a little,” he said.
“Next time I’ll know to do it harder,” Kick said.
“Next time I won’t give you the chance,” Bishop said.
Kick considered hitting him in the nuts again, right then and there. Instead, she did the next most aggressive thing that occurred to her: she peeled off the damp yellow towel, held it out at arm’s length, and let it drop.
Bishop didn’t react; he didn’t even avert his eyes.
Flummoxed, Kick stepped directly in front of him, stark naked; all hair and breasts and pubic hair, scrapes, bruises, and strained muscles. She drew herself up taller, shoulders back, feet apart. Except for the sound of Monster pawing
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