Warily Bentz handled the thin package. She offered him a letter opener and he sliced the seal carefully. Rebecca watched as he tipped out the single sheet of paper within.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth as a picture of Olivia slid onto the desk’s Formica surface.

Bentz’s knees nearly gave way. His stomach turned over. He stared at the shot of Olivia, his beautiful Olivia, who eyed the camera dead-on with an expression of stark, cold fear. Pale as death, she was looking through bars, as if she were in some old western jail. Her hair was mussed; her eyes round and bloodshot, a red patch evident over her mouth where it seemed a gag had been taped. All of the life, the fire of her personality, had disappeared. Instead her expression was of pure terror.

“Goddamn it!” he said, his jaw tight, every muscle in his body clenched. If he ever found the psycho who did this, Bentz would personally tear him limb from limb.

But she’s alive, he reminded himself. That’s something!

Insides twisted, he checked the envelope further, expecting a letter or note, but there was nothing more. Just the devastating photograph.

You did this, Bentz. She’s been captured, maybe tortured, and held in this jail because of you and your insatiable need, your damned obsession to chase down your ex-wife.

Guilt and fear ripped through him.

“What…what is this?” Rebecca asked.

“This,” he said, his voice nearly cracking, “is my wife.”

“Oh, God…I’m so sorry.” She licked her lips nervously as she continued to stare in horror at the picture. “Where is she? What is happening to her? This could be a joke, right? A sick one, but a joke?” When she met his gaze, she knew the truth. “Oh, mother of God.” She blinked against a spate of tears.

“Is Tony around?” Bentz asked.

“Oh…yeah…Sorry.” She turned her head and yelled over her shoulder for her son. “Tony!”

“Do you know if Tony got a look at the person who left this?” he asked, motioning to the envelope.

“I don’t think so.” She cleared her throat and took a step closer to the door separating the lobby from the business office and staff quarters. “Tony!” she called again, more sharply. “He’s got a cold, that’s why he’s not in school.”

Yeah, right.

A few seconds later, Tony appeared plugged into an MP3 player, grooving out to music loud enough that Bentz heard the sharp cadence of a rap tune. Hands in his pockets, the kid shuffled into the office from the back as Bentz slid the picture into its heavy envelope. To the boy’s credit he did sniffle and snort a bit as if his nose was threatening to drip. A cold? Or maybe the results from snorting some drug? Coke? Meth? At the moment Bentz didn’t care.