There was a flat-screen television behind the bar, and Zelda half-watched The Voice with the sound off. It was better that way. She could hardly sit and read her book at the bar tonight. She was too nervous to concentrate, anyway. She kept glancing at her watch. The knife was in her handbag, and she felt so conscious of it she was certain the whole place knew about it, that everyone knew what she was planning to do. What if he didn’t come? What if he didn’t pay her any attention? Was she attractive enough?

Then, around the same time he came in the previous evening, she saw the familiar figure reflected in the mirror behind the bar and held her breath. He paused in the entrance from the hotel lobby, straightened his tie and surveyed the bar. She couldn’t be certain, but she thought his eyes may have lingered on her a fraction longer than on anyone else. She hoped it wasn’t because he recognized her.

There was no room at the bar, and she could hardly move somewhere else. Besides, it would be too obvious. If he was interested, he would find a way to her. It shouldn’t be too hard to attract him, as she was the only unaccompanied female at the bar. Their eyes locked in the mirror, and Zelda thought she noticed a glimmer of interest.

She noticed him studying her back as he walked toward the bar in a direct line, perhaps making sure she was alone. She made a point of looking at her watch and drumming her fingers on the bar, appearing vaguely annoyed. She held her breath as he stood slightly behind her and the couple beside her, leaning forward between them to catch the bartender’s attention. He caught her eyes in the mirror again and gave a little smile. As he leaned, she felt his arm brush against her bare shoulder, nudging her just enough to jar the drink in her hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “It is very crowded here tonight, yes?”

Zelda remembered the voice, though the accent had smoothed out, become more Americanized, over the years. She felt her throat constrict. She somehow managed to smile and nod.

“Please, let me buy you a drink,” he went on.

“It’s not necessary.”

“But I insist.”

“Well, in that case . . .”

He was wearing the same white suit as he had last night, though this time with a purple shirt and yellow tie. She guessed he had been in his late twenties when he and his brother abducted her just over thirteen years ago, so he had now probably just turned forty. He seemed to be on familiar terms with the barman, who didn’t even need to ask him what he wanted but served him a large measure of whisky along with another vodka and tonic for her. The whiff of peat from his glass told her it was an Islay single malt.