The PI leaned back in his chair as if he couldn’t care less about her or the devastation his information had caused. “Do you want me to continue digging?”
Courtney gripped the folder in her hand as if her future depended on its content.
In truth, it did. Every fact she digested from the dossier would make Jared King more real. More dangerous. But she couldn’t fall apart here. “His address is inside?” she asked.
At the man’s nod, Courtney opened her three-year-old Prada purse and slid an envelope of cash across the table. No need to create a record of this transaction. She didn’t plan on seeing the private investigator again. She’d shred his card when she arrived home. “Thank you.”
The PI’s brow arched, but he pocketed the money and stood. “If you need anything else—”
“I won’t.”
At her terse response, he gave a sharp nod, rose from the table and exited the coffee shop. Courtney barely noticed him leaving. She couldn’t stop staring at the folder. For so long she’d dreaded—and wished for—this day.
Her phone dinged. A text came through.
Come home. Trouble.
The oddly curt message from her housekeeper closed her throat. Courtney clasped her neck. She couldn’t breathe. The barista called out her order, but Courtney ignored the announcement. She had to get home. Without a backward glance, she raced out of the coffeehouse and flagged a taxi.
Panicked, she dialed home.
No answer.
Without a second thought she called her assistant to inform her she wouldn’t be returning to the museum.
The cab swerved through traffic. Courtney took in a slow, deep breath. Perhaps she was overreacting. Since recognizing Jared, she’d been a rigid ball of nerves.
Despite logic trying to convince her everything was fine, her heart raced, slamming against her chest. She fought through the dread and clutched the door handle.
Luckily traffic was lighter than normal. The moment the taxi stopped in front of her building, she threw a hundred-dollar bill at the surprised cabby and jumped out.
“Good day, Ms. Jamison,” the doorman commented, holding the heavy glass open for her.
Unlike normal, she couldn’t muster a smile or chitchat. Ignoring Reggie’s furrowed brow of concern, she hit the button for the elevator.
She slipped the key card into the penthouse lock, but the familiar click didn’t sound. The door silently eased open.
“Marilyn?” she called. “What’s wrong?”
Courtney skidded to a halt. Her sitter lay on the living room floor, eyes staring unblinking and lifeless at the ceiling. Blood pooled around her head, seeping into her gray hair.
She dropped to her knees, her finger slipping through the blood when she searched for a pulse.
Nothing.
Only a split second passed before the shock leached into Courtney’s throat. “Dylan!” Courtney tore through the living area, searching frantically. Where was her son? She grabbed the fireplace poker and gripped it tight before racing into her baby’s bedroom.
She froze.
The crib had been overturned, the chest of drawers upended, clothes strewn across the floor.
Courtney whirled around. Her gaze landed on the closet door. Her stomach rolled and bile rose in her throat. Was the murderer still there? Did he have her baby?
She picked her way through the chaos, clutching her makeshift weapon with both hands. She reached out, barely able to breathe.
Terrified of what she’d see, unable to stop the horrifying images flying through her mind, she yanked open the door and flipped on the light.
Her knees gave way.
Empty.
“Dylan, where are you?”
She begged for a jabber a laugh, even a cry, but nothing. Within minutes she’d searched the rest of the apartment. Only one room left. Her room.
She slammed through the door and froze. In the center of the perfectly pristine bed lay her nine-month old son, pillows penning him in a makeshift crib on the bed.
He wasn’t moving.
Courtney’s heart stopped. She raced over to her heart and soul, terrified of what she might find. She leaned over the peaceful countenance and her body went limp.
“Dylan?” Courtney’s hand shook. The fireplace iron thudded to the floor. She reached out to touch her baby boy’s face.
Her son’s chest rose and fell. He was alive.
Choking back a sob of relief, Courtney scooped up her son with noodle-like arms. The movement caused Dylan to screw up his face and let out a loud yell.
“What happened, baby?” She glanced around the room, but nothing else appeared to be out of place.
Her gaze landed on Dylan’s stuffed lamb sitting on one pillow. A sheet of paper was pinned to the toy. She scanned the words in horror.
If we wanted to kidnap him, your son would be gone.
If we wanted to kill him, your son would be dead.
When we come back, we WILL take him. We WILL kill him.
Unless we receive $3,680,312.00.
We will call you with instructions.
If you contact the police or FBI, he will die.
If you don’t get us the money within 72 hours, he will die.
Don’t try to be smart. You can’t hide from us.
With a shuddering breath, Courtney tried to comprehend what she was reading. The strange amount of money, the taunting threats. Nothing made sense.
She gazed into Dylan’s one brown eye and one green eye, trying to smile with reassurance, all the while backing toward the door. “We have to get you out of here.”
Bundling up the diaper bag, Courtney raced out of the apartment with one last sorrowful glance at Marilyn. What kind of monster would kill the sweet woman who loved Dylan so much?
She hugged her child close. “I’ll keep you safe, Jelly Bean. I promise.”
* * *
ALMOST TWO HOURS LATER, the car service’s Mercedes pulled up in front of her father’s Greenwich, Connecticut, mansion. Courtney turned her cell phone over and over in her hand. Her thumb hovered over the emergency key. For the thousandth time on the ride there, she considered calling law enforcement.
Something had stopped her once again. Maybe it was all those television programs that showed how easy it was to hack a phone call. She couldn’t take the risk. Not with Jelly Bean. The kidnapper had come into her home. Had touched her baby boy. Had killed Marilyn.
A shiver vibrated down her arms. Part of her kept telling herself this couldn’t be happening. Threats like this were the stuff of crime novels and television shows, and yet every time she reread the note and pictured poor Marilyn lying on the floor of her penthouse, she knew it was her reality.
Which was why she was about to make an unprecedented request. Courtney rubbed her eyes. She’d never gone to her father with an open hand, but she didn’t know where else to turn. Her job, the penthouse, everything but her salary was part of her grandmother’s trust specifically created to fund the museum. She didn’t have the money to pay the murderer what he wanted.
She had to believe her father would give her what she needed. He