The word was nearly laughable. There was nothing normal about this. Still. Her feet itched to move. To take her to her cell phone so she could make the “normal” choice. But there was more to consider than simply placing her daughter’s fate in the hands of the police.
For one, there was the not-so-small issue of guardianship. No matter how Maryse sliced it, there was nothing legal about her parentage. Or even her identity. Sure, she had ID that had passed even strict scrutiny over the years. But this was different. This was the police, picking apart all aspects of her life. If they figured out that she was a fraud, it might influence how the case was viewed. Would they throw her in jail? Keep her from the investigation?
Of course, that was actually a small matter compared to the note and its warning. Because Cami’s safety was definitely worth more than protecting her own identity, and there was no getting around what fate her brother had met. He’d died in the fire supposedly set by his own hand.
Maryse swallowed. The idea that something similar might happen to her daughter was unbearable. More than unbearable. Unthinkable.
But she was sure that every kidnapper made the same warning about contacting the authorities. That was what they always showed in the movies, anyway. So did that mean she should just do it anyway? Was calling them worth the risk in spite of the warning? They’d already snuffed out Jean-Paul’s life. Would they hesitate on making this new threat a reality, too?
And what about ransom?
Her rapidly churning thoughts paused for a moment. There was no mention of money. Was it coming later?
No. Because they already took what they wanted. Cami herself.
The thought made her want to go for the phone all over again. Because if they weren’t after anything in exchange, what did she have to negotiate with? The police were surely better equipped to deal with this than she was.
Her head spun even more.
If Cami died and it was because she made the wrong call...
If Cami died and it was because she didn’t make the call...
And besides all of that...would the cops even believe her story?
Probably not.
Not quick enough, anyway. It was too complicated. Too far-fetched. And the nearest police station was an hour away. In the amount of time it would take them to make their way to her, she could get halfway to Laval herself. If she hurried, she could even be there before breakfast.
Maryse exhaled, then squeezed the Maison Blanc card once more. A phone call to the hotel would be pointless. It had taken him—whoever he was—six years to find her and Cami. He wouldn’t have left a clue behind. Not on purpose. He was there. He had Cami.
And Maryse was going to take her back.
* * *
Brooks Small stretched out his long legs, leaned back and attempted to bask in the sun. For about three seconds, it worked. Then a blast of crisp air cut across his face, throwing the hood of his parka down from his head to his shoulders, reminding him a little too thoroughly that it was winter.
Except it’s not winter, growled his inner, surly self. It’s mid-April.
Stubbornly, he reached up to snap his hood back into place, and his elbow snagged on the edge of his wicker coffee-shop chair. He heard a loud tear.
Dammit.
Pulling on every ounce of patience he had, Brooks closed his eyes, counted to twelve—because ten sure as hell wasn’t going to cut it right that second—and eased the jacket away from the chair.
“You hated the coat anyway,” he muttered.
It was true. Mostly because he hated everything to do with being away from his home in the ironically named town of Rain Falls, Nevada. He preferred being minutes from the bright lights of Vegas and he enjoyed the often-scorching summer days.
If he was there, now, in the good old US of A, his neighbors would be opening their pools. Not scraping the snow off their backyard ponds so they could enjoy the supposedly unseasonably cold weather.
As if this frozen city has a season other than winter.
He exhaled noisily, his breath frosty and visible. Brooks had heard on the radio that it was minus eighteen degrees Celsius outside today. Which translated to roughly zero degrees Fahrenheit.
Two months Brooks had been in Laval, Quebec, and he had yet to see anything but snow.
Snowy streets.
Snowy parks.
Snowy everything.
Like nature had whitewashed the entire city.
Don’t forget the icicles, Brooks reminded himself. Actual damned icicles, hanging from actual damned eaves.
“Monsieur?”
Brooks’s head snapped up at the voice, and the teenage waitress attached to the soft-spoken question jumped back. He tried to smooth out his expression, at least into something passably pleasant. He failed. It was evident in the way that the waitress continued to stand a few feet away, cowering just a little. His espresso was still in her shaking hand, and it was cooling rapidly.
Brooks inclined his head toward the demitasse cup. “Mon café?”
“Oui.”
He stifled a sigh. Usually his complete bastardization of the language of love was enough to squeeze the English out of even the most French of the French-Canadian.
Not today, apparently.
“Mademoiselle?” he prodded.
When she continued to stand stock-still, Brooks decided she needed a bit of motivation in a more universal language. He dug into the zippered pocket of his parka and fished out three wide gold-and silver-colored coins. He eyed them skeptically. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the things, no matter how long his banishment to Canada lasted. The damned coins seemed like toy money to Brooks, and they sure as hell didn’t look like enough cash to pay for his coffee and leave a four-dollar tip on top of that.
When he set them down on the table, though, the waitress finally did snap out of her fear-daze. With something approximating a smile, she slipped the coins into her tiny apron and set Brooks’s coffee—without spilling a drop, he noticed—in its place.
“Merci,” she said, then scurried away quickly, back into the enveloping warmth of the café.
Brooks waited until she’d disappeared before he took a sip of coffee. He knew it didn’t make a ton of sense to sit outside in the freezing cold, but the ritual wasn’t about reason. It was about principle. Like many cops, Brooks got into a groove and stuck to it. He didn’t know if it could be classified as superstitious behavior or if it bordered on compulsive, but he did know it worked for him. He’d even argue that it made him better at his job, because sticking to a routine made it easier to spot the out-of-the-ordinary.
Every morning at home, he sat on the patio,
