“Not until someone discovered the remains of the other missing children from the kidnapping. All the children were accounted for except for Daniel. Everything started to crumble at that point. Michael wanted to know why his brother’s remains weren’t found with the other children’s.”

Violet liked the way Jamie smiled when she said Michael’s name. Even though the story was horrible, just saying his name clearly made her happy.

“So Michael did what he does best,” said Jamie. “He snooped and poked and prodded until he got answers.”

“That’s how you met?” Violet asked.

“Yes.”

“And Chris is like your brother now.”

“I was only ten when he escaped from his kidnapper and came to live with us. He’s the only brother I’ve known since then. I understand my real-life brother died . . . and I feel his loss. But Chris has filled that hole for decades.”

It made sense to Violet. It was hard to miss what you didn’t remember. Sometimes she wondered if she should feel more loss over her maternal grandparents’ deaths, but they’d died when her mother was eight. She carried a tiny bit of guilt for not missing some people she’d never known.

But she missed Nana every day.

Gianna sat on the guest bed beside her and hugged her. Violet sniffled and realized she had tears on her face. “I’m really tired,” she mumbled.

“And I’ve been talking your ear off for ten minutes,” said Jamie. “I brought the two of you some pajamas.” The tall woman smiled at Gianna. “Clearly you’ll have to roll up the legs.”

“I’ll be asleep. It won’t matter. Thank you so much.” Her mom yawned. “Tomorrow we’ll figure out what is going on.”

An image of the blood on her mother’s coat popped into Violet’s head. She’d nearly forgotten that they’d left two dead people up in the forest.

He’d gone against his father’s directive.

No one told him what to do.

Even his father. He would get the job done, and it was time he followed his own initiative. The end result would be the same: he’d recover the device. But now he was doing it his way.

Gianna Trask would be taken care of. He was pleased she hadn’t died in the fire. Yes, she would still have to die at some point, but until then he would enjoy every minute.

Breaking the front window at her home had been a risk. But he’d been watching for so long that he’d ached to set foot where she walked every day. He’d seen her and Violet load their vehicle, clearly leaving for a few days, and had decided to take a chance. He had a tracker on her vehicle; he could catch up. That night in the dark, he’d broken in. It had almost been too easy; the home had no defenses. Something he’d checked thoroughly before risking an alarm.

The home had a faint cinnamon scent. He’d gone immediately to the kitchen and looked for evidence of previous baking. If she’d made cinnamon rolls, she’d taken them on her trip. He didn’t use his flashlight, finding his night vision sufficient in the dim home. He’d poked through her kitchen drawers and cupboards. There was an absence of the junk that he’d noticed in most people’s homes, the little things that accumulated over time that people hated to throw away. It made sense. She’d been in the house for only a short while.

He wandered to the upper level of the house, stopping first in Violet’s room. Black walls greeted him. Noticing that her blinds were closed tight, he turned on his flashlight to a dim level, and realized the walls were actually dark purple and covered in posters of young men. Movie stars, bands. He recognized a few. A strong perfume filled the room. The type he associated with certain clothing stores at the mall that catered to teens who lived in hoodies and lace and shorts. He turned off his light and backed out of the room. The teenager held no interest for him; she was a child.

His interest lay in the bedroom at the back of the house. The room he’d watched every day for three weeks. He kept his flashlight off and moved to the center of her master bedroom, inhaling deeply. No overpowering scents. Large windows filled the back wall of the room, with her bed positioned at the bottom of one. On sunny days she’d wake to the sun on her face.

He knew she kept her blinds lowered from the top, keeping the bottom halves of the windows covered and blocking curious gazes from ground level. But from his second-floor spy nest, he could see her if she walked about the room, constantly moving in and out of his view. It simply tantalized him, making him want to see more.

He moved to the window and spotted his favorite spying position in the empty home behind hers. Does she ever wonder who lives in that house? Wonder if they watch her? He picked up a pillow and pressed it against his face.

He caught the faintest odor of shampoo or face cream. A store-bought scent. Annoyance rolled through him. He’d wanted to know what her skin smelled like, what her favorite shirt would smell like after she slept in it. He stepped into the master closet, pulled the door closed, and turned on the light. The odor of leather was the primary smell. Shoes, jackets, and purses were lined up on her shelves. He peeked in a bag on the floor, his mind spinning as he spotted lingerie with the tags still attached.

She’s never worn these for anyone.

He shoved the bras and panties into his coat pockets.

He rifled through her filing cabinet, grabbed her computer and a few other knickknacks, and then vanished silently out the door. He hadn’t found the item he was looking for, but he had a few mementoes that’d made it worth his while.