Amarok bent over to peer closely at what Penny had discovered. The lines were too faint to be able to make out the words or confirm that Evelyn had written them. But there was that possibility. “Do we know where the sheet on top of this one could have gone?”

“Sadly, I’m guessing whoever wrote on this pad last took it or threw it away. Penny’s down in Janitorial and Maintenance right now, asking where the garbage goes once it’s taken from here. I know a lot of it is eventually recycled or incinerated, but I’m hoping that hasn’t happened yet.”

Amarok straightened. “So am I. Stay here and don’t let anyone touch this,” he said, and ran down to his truck to get his forensics kit so he could use his high-res digital camera and oblique lighting to photograph the pad.

Once he’d taken multiple shots from different angles for future reference, he had Ricardo find him a soft lead pencil, which he rubbed gently over the indentations on the page.

Almost like magic, the writing appeared—a name and a number.

“No way,” Amarok murmured.

“That’s Evelyn’s writing!” Ricardo said. “I recognize it myself.” He bent closer. “But who’s Alistair?”

Amarok shoved a hand through his hair as he gaped at the name. “My mother.”

Anchorage, AK—Sunday 9:00 a.m. AKDT

Lyman Bishop was the opposite of the man Evelyn had killed. He wasn’t particularly young, he wasn’t fit or strong and instead of delivering her food in a no-nonsense manner, without even speaking to her or looking at her, if he could avoid it, he left the slot open and pulled up a chair to the other side of the door so he could talk to her. She could tell he’d been waiting for this moment and was now relishing the fact that he’d succeeded not only in surviving and escaping but also in kidnapping her.

“How have you been, anyway?” he asked as though they were good friends who hadn’t seen each other in some time, sitting out on a porch somewhere.

She’d never witnessed a greater disconnect in anyone else, never known anyone less self-aware, even Jasper.

Instead of trying to point out the obvious, she said nothing, just kept shoveling down her oatmeal. This time she hadn’t been provided with any fruit, which was something he’d apologized for when he handed her the tray. He’d said he needed to go out and get some groceries, that “Emmett” hadn’t done a very good job of stocking the cupboards, but “beggars couldn’t be choosers.” He’d had to work with who he had to work with, he’d said.

“You’re not going to talk to me?” he asked when the silence stretched out.

She took some small pleasure in his disappointment.

There was a brief silence before he said, “Of course. You’re hungry. Go ahead. I’ll do the talking. I’m sure you’re curious to hear about everything that’s happened to me since we last met.”

She swallowed another spoonful of oatmeal. “No, not really. I don’t care about you at all.” She knew she’d be smarter to bridle her tongue, but she didn’t have the emotional wherewithal. That the effort she’d put into getting away had failed, that going that far hadn’t improved her situation and she didn’t see any other avenue of escape, had devastated her, left her feeling miserable and defeated.