Hands trembling, Grant searched the area code and found it served Seattle. It was still early there, just after nine. So, using his own phone, he dialed the number.

“Hello,” a soft female voice answered. It wasn’t a question, like one would normally answer the phone. It was a statement. Almost as if his call had been expected.

“My name is Grant Masterson.”

“I know. I’ve been waiting for you to call. Is . . . is Wesley all right?”

The sob he’d been holding back barreled out. “No. He’s dead.”

The woman sighed. “I was afraid of that. My name is Nita Rubio. Or it was. Your brother helped me get a new identity, a new life.”

Through his tears, Grant managed to speak. “You knew my sister?”

A long, long moment of silence. “I was with Laurel when she died. We were taken at different times, but sold to the same man, Clinton Stern. I was able to steal one of his burner phones one day and made the call to Wesley. Laurel said he’d help us. But we didn’t know where we were. Wesley tried to find us, but he couldn’t. A few weeks passed and Laurel saw an opportunity to take a letter addressed to Stern, but he caught her and . . .” Her swallow was audible. “Beat her. Badly.”

“No,” Grant whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” she said mournfully. “Stern was so angry that he nearly killed me, too. He had to leave the house, and he was so upset that, for the first time, he didn’t lock the door. I got Laurel out. Half carried, half dragged her to one of his cars and I drove her to a clinic. I didn’t give our names. I didn’t want Stern to find us. I did call Wesley and he came right away. But he was too late for Laurel.”

Grant swiped at his eyes, trying to see through his tears. “But not for you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, this time very timidly, like she feared his anger.

“I’m not sorry that he saved you,” Grant said quickly. “You’re okay now?”

“Yes. I have a good job and a good life. But Stern had powerful friends, so I’m no longer Nita Rubio.”

“And you’re not going to tell me your new name. I get it.” Grant truly did. He’d do the same in her position. “Stern is dead.”

“I know. Wesley told me that he’d killed him.”

“So is the man who took Laurel, Anatoly Markov.” He spat the name out.

“I know. And so is the man who took me. Wesley told me that, too.”

Grant sucked in a breath, remembering the third bullet. “Bert Stuart, the detective?”