Sebastian froze. “Are you bailing on me?”

Ron cleared his throat. “Sebastian,” he began.

“Stay with me on this. Until we find my daughter. Once we do that, we can go on and live our new lives.”

Ron picked up his glass and looked away.

CHAPTER 39

SEBASTIAN HAD NO memory of falling asleep. He was jolted awake by someone shaking his shoulder, saw Ron, and bolted upright in the chair.

“Paul make contact?”

“Two minutes ago,” Ron said. “He sent a picture, and a phone number.”

Sebastian didn’t get a chance to ask any questions; Ron had moved out of the living room and darted upstairs, to Sebastian’s home office. Sebastian could hear footsteps above him, Ron and his men talking, as he looked around for his phone. There, on the coffee table.

Sebastian checked his watch. Three thirty-five a.m.

The email’s subject line read, “Proof of Life?” The body of the email contained no text, just an attachment. Sebastian tapped a finger against the screen, and as the attachment opened, he prayed to God that she was alive—Please let her be alive.

The attachment was a headshot of Grace.

The first thing he noticed was the left side of her face. Her cheek and jawline were scraped raw, the skin slightly swollen, like she had been in a minor car accident. Her eyes were closed, her features slack from sleep.

Yes, sleep, he told himself. Grace was sleeping, not dead. There was color in her face.

Sebastian scrolled to the bottom, found a phone number written in black on a piece of paper beneath her chin.

Ron came halfway down the steps. Sebastian was already on his feet, moving. He was wide-awake. His blood was caffeine.

“We’re ready to trace the call,” Ron said. “Keep him on as long as you can.”

“Your people?”

“We’re ready.”

“Email?”

“Working on it now.”

As Sebastian dialed the number, Ron’s words from last night about Paul flashed through his mind: Now that he’s discovered your Achilles’ heel, he can torture you . . . indefinitely. You really think he’s going to give you her?

He’s wrong, Sebastian told himself as he dialed the number. Ron didn’t know Paul. Sebastian did. Sebastian knew what Paul wanted, what fed him.

The phone on the other end of the line was picked up.

Silence.

Sebastian broke it. “I have your money.”

Silence.

Wait, Sebastian told himself. Make him come to you.

Sebastian waited, pacing, watching the second hand on his clock.

Twenty-two seconds passed.

“What else do you have for me?” Paul asked.

“My donors. All of them.”

Paul chuckled. “I don’t believe you.”

“You should. Let’s arrange a trade. Where and when do you want to meet?”

“You sound anxious, Sebastian. Nervous. Is it because I have the daughter of your childhood sweetheart? You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

“We need to discuss your product.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I found out? Aren’t you dying to know?”

Sebastian looked at his watch. Fifty-three seconds.