In spite of the fact that he had to piss like a racehorse, he fired up the Dell and waited impatiently for the Internet browser to get rolling. To pass the time, he took a gander at the ligature marks around his wrists. The pair of them were a pattern of brilliant red, twisted lines that were shiny and raw, and the tangible reminder of where he’d been and what had been done to him tantalized his mind with a field trip into PTSD. Except that was one permission slip he refused to sign.

Dragging himself into focus, he started to type, although because his fingers were numb, it took forever to get to the Caldwell Courier Journal’s site and put in a search for Cecilia Barten. . . .

Up came an article from some two weeks prior, and Sissy’s picture brought a sheen to his eyes. She was smiling into the camera while standing in the center of a bunch of kids her own age. There was no telling how long it had been between when the photo was snapped and when she’d been taken by Devina—but the fact that she’d had no idea what was around the corner for her made his unreliable heart get even flakier on the job.

Probably good that she hadn’t known.

And he was so going to get Devina for this.

The only other article was one that reported she remained missing a week later—and the two together made him realize why his first search of the database had failed. He’d only told the computer to look for murdered or dead blond girls. Not ones who were MIA.

Stupid fucking mistake.

And the details were as she had told him: She was a fresh-man at Union College in Albany, and home on spring break in Caldwell. The last anyone had seen of her was when she’d left at nine p.m. to go to the local Hannaford for groceries.

No pictures of her parents. He was going to find them, however.

“Did you see her,” Adrian said in a voice that was mostly gravel.

“Yeah.” Jim stared at the picture of his girl smiling with her friends. Then he blinked and saw that blond hair matted with blood. “How do I get her out of the wall?”

The other angel’s exhale was the kind you made when there was no good news to be had. Anywhere. And you were aching from that. “You can’t.”

“Unacceptable. There has to be a way.”

“Not that I’ve found.” There was a curse and then a creaking of the mattress and a variety of cracks, as if Ad was stretching. “I’ll be right back.”

As heavy footsteps headed for the other bedroom, Jim didn’t acknowledge the guy’s exit. But when Dog’s muzzle nudged against his bare leg, he looked down.