“You have your phone on you, right?” Ryan asks. “If someone needs to reach you, the call would get through?”

“It’s right here.” Jack pats his dress coat pocket. “You’re thinking ransom? Right?”

“It’s a distinct possibility. Do you have a landline?”

“No. Telemarketers were the only people who called it. Disconnected it about a year ago. But I assume if they can get my daughter, they can get my cell number.”

“They’ll find a way to reach you. Be sure to check your email.”

“Do you think I should have hired personal security?” Jack pivots, peering up at Ryan. The two men eye each other. Jack is a good four inches shorter than Ryan, barely taller than I am. But both men intimidate with stern expressions and take-no-shit attitudes.

“I never said that,” Ryan responds after a beat of silence.

“You own a security firm. You obviously believe in it. I just… I wanted her to live a normal life. That’s what Cassandra wanted.” I glance around this majestic home, taking in Jack’s version of normal.

The low hum of a phone vibrating intrudes. Jack’s eyes widen as he lifts a cell phone out of his pocket. Redness and puffy circles hint at his lack of sleep. Jack holds the screen out for an inquisitive Ryan to see.

“It’s work. I’ve got to take this. I’ll be in the office. It’s on the other end of the house.”

He steps away, leaving Ryan and me at the entrance to Sophia’s bedroom. After taking photos of her desktop, I hand Sophia’s electronics to Ryan.

“Your staff knows not to do anything that will destroy the history, right?”

“Yes.” His permafrown remains rooted in place.

I’m not here to make friends. Jack asked me to help, and that’s what I will do to the best of my ability. I focus on her desk, starting with the file drawer. I search for magazine articles, jotted notes in the margins of books, teacher feedback on assignments, anything that might provide insight into her state of mind.

A warmth spans my back, from the base of my neck down my spine. I suck in my breath and brave a glance upward, up the trousers to the broad, expansive chest of the oversized wolf man. Those ice-blue eyes watch. Scrutinize. But he doesn’t offer a critique. My throat tightens. As he steps over my calves, his leg brushes my ass. A fission of energy climbs my spine. The file folder I’m holding bends as my fingers curl.

His phone vibrates. He checks it. “I have to head into town. I’ll courier the electronics to my team. I should be back within two hours.”

The click of shoes on marble diminishes, and I breathe more easily. I zero in on a red scrawled A- and a scribble from a teacher that reads, “Nicely done. Interesting tie-in to extramarital affairs.” It’s a term paper on The Scarlet Letter. Sophia texted me about this book. She’d been shocked how they treated women. I continue searching through a sea of stellar grades. With every new folder, I give myself a moment with Sophia’s smiles pinned to her bulletin board.