She had never fought a man. Ellie had trained for it at the academy, and while she had gotten into her fair share of scrapes when arresting dopeheads, domestic abusers, and drunk drivers, she’d never had to go mano a mano with one. Frank was twice her size and three times as strong, and he was fast—and she was wearing heels. She slipped out of one, twisting her ankle in the process. The pain disappeared, replaced by a new one when he grabbed her arm and jerked it behind her back. He jerked it again when he forced it upward, toward her shoulders, in a hammerlock. He grabbed her hair, knotting it in his fist, and he marched her up the small set of stairs, to the back door, which was now open. She fell out of her other shoe and he pushed her forward through a hall, past a massive, airy kitchen and into the foyer, and he tightened his grip on her hair so hard, she was staring up at the vaulted ceiling, at a crystal chandelier. Her throat was exposed; that was all she could think about, that Frank or someone else was going to cut it—and there was at least one other person in the house, Ellie catching a shadow from the corner of her eye just before he moved her up a long set of stairs. Her feet kept tripping and Frank kept applying pressure to her arm, Ellie sure he was going to snap it and rip it from its socket, when he let go and shoved her into a bedroom bursting with sunlight.

CHAPTER 27

THE BEDROOM WAS wide, with large windows and a sliding glass door that opened onto a shaded balcony enclosed with balustrades. The only furniture in here was a cheap folding chair. The man standing in the room with her had brought it with him.

The guy looked like Elmer Fudd on steroids. He was white and young and built like a tank, with wide shoulders, a massive shaved head, and a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He wore a visible earpiece, the kind the Secret Service used, and he had dressed for the part—a navy blue suit with black shoes and a white shirt without a tie. His jacket was open, and as far as Ellie could tell, he wasn’t carrying.

The bedroom door was closed. He stood next to it, leaning back against the wall, hands tucked in his pants, and as she paced the room, sometimes rubbing the tender area on her arm where Frank had grabbed her, he tracked her movements as though she were a field mouse—a possible nuisance but by no means a threat. He didn’t move or say a word when she turned to the sliding glass door to the balcony, not surprised to find it locked.

Not that opening it would have done her much good. The drop from the balcony to the backyard was steep; she’d probably break an ankle. Still, she would have risked it. Even with a broken ankle or leg she could have hobbled her way down the slope, to the shoreline, to the scattered people in the not-too-far distance who were walking the beach, pausing to look up at the sky, at the smoke billowing in the far, far distance from the wildfires that seemed to want to consume the entire state, burn everything to the ground.