Gingerbread Man.

Frank, she knew, was watching her closely, trying to gauge her reaction. Fortunately, she had been taught how to keep her true emotions from reaching her face, to keep her voice clear when she spoke. Lying, she learned, was an art form, one that she practiced over and over again in her time with Roland. Mastering the art of lying was the one thing above all else that would keep her alive.

Ellie placed the folded picture back down on the table and looked blankly at Frank, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. He stared hard at her, waiting for her to confess, to break down—to do something. When she didn’t speak, for some reason she thought he was going to reach across the table and strangle her. Maybe she thought that way given the intensity in his eyes. She thought she saw a primal hunger there. A burning anger aimed at the man in the photograph.

“This man,” Frank said. “Where have you seen him?”

“I haven’t.”

She could feel Frank’s eyes searching her mind and heart.

Ellie had prepared for moments like this one. She radiated confidence through her body language and in her voice when she said, “I would have remembered meeting someone like that. Who is he? And what’s with those tattoos?”

“Have you seen him with Anton?”

“I’m not with Anton every day.”

“That wasn’t the question I asked.”

“During my times with Anton, no, I haven’t seen him. Have you asked Anton? This would be a question more suited to him, wouldn’t it?”

Frank’s gaze remained on her as he picked up the picture and tucked it back inside his suit pocket. “If you see that man, you’re to tell me right away.”

“Who is he?”

“That doesn’t concern you. I’ll give you my personal number.”

Ellie knew Frank wasn’t going to give her any specific information on Gingerbread Man. The subject was a dead end, at least for now. She said, “How about we talk about the job you’re offering? What will I be doing?”

“You’d be working for me, with high-end clients in an . . . intimate setting. Hence the need for discretion.”

High-end clients. Intimate. Frank was discussing a job that would put her next to people receiving blood treatments. Was it Pandora? Please, God, let it be Pandora.

“There would also be some managerial aspects to the job,” Frank said. “I could go over those at a later time—provided you’re interested.”

“Depends on the money.”

“It will be a significant raise. We can negotiate later—if you’re interested in the job.”

Frank was offering her a chance to get closer to the inner circle—and, she hoped, closer to finding her brother. There have to be records of carriers, some sort of database where they keep track of them, their blood types, she thought, taking a long sip of her drink.

“Are you interested?” Frank asked. “Or should I look elsewhere?”

Ellie thought of the picture of J.C. on the wall. “I’m interested,” she said, allowing the smile to reach her face and voice.