“No sane person wishes for their kid to be harmed.”

“I couldn’t keep the thoughts from occurring.”

“Did you ever talk to someone?”

“A therapist? Yeah, I did that a few times. They wanted me to talk about my feelings too damned much. I just wanted them to help certain thoughts go away. I shoulda seen a hypnotist instead.”

An overwhelming affection for his brother touched Chris. Michael had been in pain, too. They shouldn’t have hurt alone.

He should have told the truth twenty years ago.

“You didn’t finish your story,” Michael prodded. “What happened to Sylvia Vasquez, the driver?”

“Oh.” Chris struggled to focus. He was still thinking about Michael, young teenage Michael wishing he was dead instead of his brother.

“Sylvia coordinated the whole tour. She was a lot more than just a driver.”

“I remember. She seemed to do a little bit of everything at the school.”

“Well, we’d all gotten back on the bus and were starting to leave the parking lot when the Ghostman flagged us down. He was waving a jacket at us, like one of us had left something behind during the tour. And he was shouting her name like he was familiar with her.”

“So maybe he knew her?”

“I saw her face. I don’t think she knew him. But he got her attention, and she stopped the bus. When she opened the door for him, he said that one of us had left behind a coat, and he stepped on the bus.”

“What were the kids doing?”

“Everyone sorta looked at each other, waiting to see who admitted leaving a coat. Sylvia turned in her seat to look at us, and that’s when he crouched down and revealed the gun wrapped in the coat. He pointed it at Sylvia and told her to drive.”

“Holy crap. And she just did what he said?”

“He eventually pointed the gun at Kendall, who was in the front seat. That made Sylvia drive.”

“No one saw the bus leave,” said Michael. “They asked for tips all over the city, and no one came forward to say they’d seen the bus. How in the hell did it just vanish?”

Chris shook his head. “We drove right through plenty of traffic. A million times, I wanted to flag someone and say we needed help, but he watched us like a hawk. Kendall was crying. He had the gun on her the whole way. Most of the kids were crying at one point or another. He kept saying he just needed a ride, and if we’d take him where he needed to go, he’d let us go safely.

“The first thing he did when we got to the woods was shoot Sylvia Vasquez. Then threaten to do the same to everyone else if we didn’t obey him.”

Michael was silent as he drove.

Chris looked out the window. How many times had he relived that bus ride? If he’d flagged another motorist. If he’d tackled the Ghostman as his attention waned for a second. His life and everyone else’s could have been different.

“You were only a kid,” Michael said. “Nothing you could have done would have made a difference.”

Mind reader.

Chris wiped at his cheek. One day he might actually believe that.

It felt like she’d been in the trunk forever.

Jamie dozed in and out, the scenery never changing. Dark. Confined. The small access Mr. Tattoo had opened from the car to the trunk had probably saved her life. The cool air was heavenly. She was still thirsty, but at least she didn’t need to pee. Thank God for small miracles, because she had a hunch he didn’t want to be a bathroom escort.

Hopefully, she wasn’t getting too dehydrated. No muscle cramps yet.

The car slowed and went through a series of turns. She continually lost her balance and rolled awkwardly several times in the trunk. Were they actually nearing a destination?

Please don’t take me to the bunker.

She’d seen the faces of the cops who’d been in the bunker. And she’d read the descriptions in the newspaper. That’d been enough.

Surely he was taking her somewhere else. Only an idiot would go back to the scene of the crime. But would a new location be an improvement?

She was still alive and above ground. That was giving her hope. He had something in mind for her; otherwise, he would have killed her already.

That meant she had a chance. She was a fighter, and she’d fight with whatever she could get her hands on.

You’re no good to me roasted or barbecued. That statement indicated he had something planned. But what? A ransom? Michael was probably loaded. He practically came from blue blood. Did her kidnapper know of her relationship with the reporter?

The tattooed man hadn’t asked anyone for money when he had taken Chris and all those other kids. Ransom didn’t sound like his style. It appeared he’d kept those kids for his own twisted purposes.

When he’d attacked her in her home, he’d wanted to know where Chris was. Did he think Chris would look for her? Did he think kidnapping her would bring Chris out in the open?

Why did he want Chris?

Chris didn’t remember anything. Chris couldn’t have identified Mr. Tattoo as his kidnapper. Why had he come out of the woodwork now? What could Chris do to him?

Another turn slammed Jamie’s head against metal.

Shit.

She blinked away the wetness from her eyes. The car slowed and took a long turn. Then stopped. They idled for fifteen seconds and then slowly moved forward. Jamie listened hard, searching for any audible clue of where she could be. The roadway was smooth and paved, so at least they weren’t near the bunker.