Stolen(53)

Where she’d gone, he’d gone.

Her parents kept her passports under lock and key, which made it impossible for her to reconstruct a timeline of her life abroad. But it was all laid out for her now. Cayman had been with her since the day she’d been ransomed. These little booklets, trembling in her hand, showed every country she’d visited and every date since Angelina had been murdered.

If she could cross-check the dates of her travel with reports of missing women in the same locations, she might find the victims whose faces she recalled from the news, but whose names she didn’t know.

Exhaling a long breath, she zipped the passports into the pocket of her jacket.

Before she put the box away, curiosity prompted her to inspect the remaining contents. It was an odd collection of receipts, ticket stubs, and mementos mixed with utilitarian items like toenail clippers and super glue. At the bottom, an envelope caught her eye. She could tell from the firm sleek feel of it that she’d found a rarity in today’s world—a physical photograph—the kind you can hold in your hand. Sure enough, inside the envelope was a long narrow strip of photo paper.

Outside the window, a car engine roared to life.

Her shoulders jumped, but then relaxed when she heard the car buzz down the street. It wasn’t Cayman . . . yet. But she’d better get out of here fast. She’d peek at the photo, return the shoe box to the top of the closet, and then get the hell out.

She turned the photo strip face up.

It had obviously been taken in a fun booth.

Her eyes blurred with tears, and it took her a minute to process what she was seeing.

But when she did, her bones, her lungs, her skin seemed to freeze, as though she’d just stepped naked into a cryotherapy chamber.

A couple was pictured pulling a series of funny faces for the camera.

They looked very happy together. Cayman and his beautiful companion—a young woman with blue eyes and long dark hair.





Chapter 29





Friday, October 25

12:00 P.M.

Campus Ridge Apartments

Denver, Colorado



“Truella Underland . . .” Spense began to read, rapid-fire, invoking his sternest tone “. . . you have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you do say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?”

The young woman’s jaw dropped, and her facial muscles went slack.

She seemed both stunned and confused—exactly the effect Spense had been going for, not to mention it never hurts to cover your ass with Miranda rights just in case. When he’d finished reading them, he slipped the card back in his suit pocket and produced a pair of handcuffs he’d lifted from a detective’s desk back in the war room.

She slumped against the open door, giving Caity the opportunity to swoop around her and enter Truella’s Campus Ridge apartment.

“Agent Spenser!” Caity offered a supporting arm to Truella. “Put those away. You can’t arrest this young woman simply for being a bad roommate.”

Truella accepted Caity’s help, pulling herself upright. But it only took an instant for the grateful look she’d sent Caity to change to something more . . . pissed off. Truella ducked out from under Caity’s supporting arm. “I am not a bad roommate.”

Spense stepped inside as well. Truella had vacated the doorway, and that was invitation enough for him. “Oh I’m not going to charge her with that, though clearly she’s not winning any friendship medals, here.” He pinned Truella with a hard glare and dangled the handcuffs inches from her face, allowing them to chime musically against each other. “Your roommate hasn’t been home since parents’ weekend. That’s a week ago, and you haven’t bothered to report her missing.”

“I didn’t know she was missing. I thought she was on one of her excursions.” She pulled her shoulders back. “Anyway, you’re bluffing. Just because you’re FBI doesn’t mean you can go around arresting anyone you feel like for no reason.”

“Agent Spenser doesn’t bluff. I’m sure he has some reason.” Caity walked from the front door to the living area like she was the hostess and Truella the guest. Spense followed, and Truella, looking very confused, did, too. The room was small and opened onto a kitchen with a gas stove and beat-up dinette set.

Spense stood, arms crossed over his chest while Caity and Truella seated themselves on a tan faux leather sofa. Off to the left, he could see a room with an unmade bed and clothes piled on the floor.

Truella followed his gaze. “That’s Harriet’s room. She’s a slob.”