the New York City streets. Pedestrians strolled the sidewalks. Horns honked. Christmas lights blinked from green and red to a rainbow of colors, then back again.
How could everything seem so normal when her entire world was crumbling to pieces? When everything she cared about was upstairs struggling to survive?
Still operating on autopilot, Amanda reached for her BlackBerry and turned it on. She didn’t really care if she had any messages. But she had to check—even if it was just to seek out some pie-in-the-sky miracle that would answer her prayers.
No miracle. Just the usual crap from the usual sources— store sales, promotions, photojournalist magazine sites. Nothing personal. Everyone knew better than to bother her with anything short of a dire emergency.
Correction. There was one personal message. An email from a fellow photojournalist, a friend of hers who’d been traveling internationally for months and wouldn’t be aware that Justin had already been born or that his condition had turned Amanda’s life upside down.
She opened the email.
I’m in DC. I had to send this to you right away. Caught it on my cell phone yesterday. 2nd Street at C Street NE. Best quality I could get. But I swear it was Paul. Take a look. I know the baby’s due this month, but thought you’d want to see this.
Amanda read the words, and, for an instant, she froze. Then she clicked on the attachment, staring at the cell phone screen and waiting for the picture to load.
The moment it did, she gasped aloud, her hand flying to her mouth. The image was a little grainy and was probably taken from twenty yards away. But clear enough if you were intimately familiar with the person photographed. And she was.
It looked just like Paul.
She zoomed in as close as she could, taking in every detail of the man who now filled her entire screen. Dear God, it was Paul.
A tsunami of conflicting emotions engulfed her. But she battled her way through them. Because one thought eclipsed all the rest.
What could this mean for Justin?
It was a mere ray of hope, a complex long shot. But, to Amanda, it was a lifeline.
She fumbled in her tote bag for the scrap of paper she’d been carrying around since last April. It was well past business hours but she didn’t care. She knew they worked around the clock when necessary. She wouldn’t call; she wouldn’t give them a chance to turn her away.
As she unfolded the crumpled paper, she yanked out the file folder she carried with her at all times—just in case she ever followed through on her idea. Everything was in there. And it wasn’t just an idea anymore.
She pressed a speed dial number on her phone—a call to her oldest and dearest friend, Melissa, who lived in Manhattan and who would never let her down.
“Lyssa,” she said when she heard her friend’s voice. “I need you to come over and relieve me. It’s not Justin. He’s okay. But can you come now?” She sagged with relief at the reply. “Thanks. It’s an emergency.”
CHAPTER TWO
Cold air. Bare trees. Christmas lights twinkling up and down the Tribeca street.
At 9:15 p.m. in this residential section of Manhattan, the four-story brownstone that housed the offices of Forensic Instincts was a secluded haven, isolated from the jungle of the city. Two sweeping willow trees marked either side of the brownstone, and a sense of peace made it seem more like a home than a workplace for Forensic Instincts.
Tonight was even quieter than usual. Casey Woods, the company president, was out holiday shopping with some friends. Most of the specialized team had taken the night off. They were all still recovering from the whirlwind of cases they’d tackled over the past month and a half—all of which had been dominated by an intense kidnapping investigation.
Marc Devereaux was the only FI team member who was on-site. And he wasn’t working. He was in one of the empty meeting rooms, doing a hundred push-ups, feeling the sweat soak through his workout clothes and hoping the intense exercise would help wipe away the mental ghosts that had come back, full force, these past few months.
They’d stayed quiet for a while. But since the kidnapping of that little girl…
He dropped to the floor, forehead pressed to the carpet, breathing heavily. Memories cut deep. Even for a former Navy SEAL. Especially for a former Navy SEAL. Everyone thought they were impervious to emotional scars. They weren’t. What he’d seen during those years might have made him a better FBI agent, and now a valuable member of Forensic Instincts, but they’d taken away something that could never be restored.
And left something dark and destructive in its place.
Marc’s head came up abruptly as he heard the front doorbell ring. It couldn’t be one of the team. They all had keys and knew the alarm code for the Hirsch pad. Instinctively, Marc reached for the pistol he’d placed on the table beside him. Rising, he walked over and eyed the small window on the computer screen displaying a view of the front door from the video surveillance camera.
A woman stood on the doorstep.
Marc pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
A brief silence.
“Is this the office of Forensic Instincts?” the woman’s voice asked.
“Yes.” Marc could have pointed out the ridiculous hour. But he’d worked for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for five years. He could read people and tones of voice. And this voice sounded dazed and shaken. Panicky. He wasn’t about to ignore it.
“I… I didn’t think anyone would be in. I just prayed you were.” Her words confirmed Marc’s assessment. “I was afraid if I called you wouldn’t answer. Please… may I come in? It’s urgent. More than urgent. It’s life or death.”
Marc had made his decision long before the end of her dire plea. He put away his pistol. “I’m on my way down.”
He draped a towel around his neck and headed for the stairs. Professional dress decorum wasn’t high on his list right now.
He reached the entranceway, punched in the alarm code and unlocked the door.
The woman standing there with a file folder under her arm was brunette and in her mid-thirties, although the strain on her face made her look older, as did the dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing a winter coat that enveloped her body, so it was hard to make out her build. Not to mention that she was clutching the coat around her as if it were a protective shield.
She stared at Marc, taking in his imposing build, the high cheekbones, dark coloring and aristocratic nose he’d inherited from his extensive French lineage, and the brooding, slightly slanted eyes that reflected his maternal grandparents’ Asian background.
His formidable appearance made the woman nervous, and she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You’re not Casey Woods,” she said, stating the obvious. She was not only uneasy, she was in a visible state of shock.
“I’m Marc Devereaux, Casey’s associate,” Marc replied in a voice that was intentionally calming. “And you are…?”
