Flogging the R 18 along the highway, Carmody glanced at the imagery on his head-up and made some rapid assessments. The ISAT had to be Malkira’s, likely putting him inside the house. Also, there was no vehicle in the driveway. Which meant he had pulled the car into the garage. Which in turn meant Raysa Musil’s phone was probably inside the car.

He was thinking she’d stashed it out of sight. Maybe under the seat. Or maybe in the gap between the seat and lower backrest. If Malkira had faked being a rideshare driver, he would have let the girls into the rear as part of his charade. And he couldn’t constantly keep his eyes on them while driving the car. Raysa could have waited till he wasn’t looking and hidden it. Unless he’d killed her while she was in the car, then left the body inside with the phone. Or killed her in the house and carried her back to the car.

Carmody knew both were possible scenarios. But he was betting on her still being alive. Malkira had more to gain from that, so far. Though, that would change very soon.

Hard on the route map, he swung off the Whitestone at the Linden Place exit, leaning tightly into the curve of the ramp. He was less than a mile from finding out if he was right or wrong.

Crouched on the balls of his feet, Grigor wound the industrial tape around Raysa’s ankles once, then twice, the rrrrip of the adhesive surface pulling from the spool loud and harsh in the room. He gave the tape another couple of turns, pressing it down with his fingertips as he went along. Then he sliced it from the roll with his ceramic knife, stood up and walked around in front of the two girls to examine his work, standing between them and the window.

They were side-by-side in the lawn chairs, Raysa’s left armrest against Jani’s right, both chairs about ten feet back from the window.

Grigor had trussed and gagged the girls so they couldn’t move or make anything but muffled, almost inaudible sounds, stuffing a wadded handkerchief into each their mouths and wrapped the tape around the top of it to hold the fabric in place. Their arms were behind their backs, bound at the wrists with the tape.

He found the stark differences between the girls interesting. The older one’s large brown eyes were wide above the tape, and she looked confused and afraid but not docile. He saw anger in the way she focused her stare on him.

Not so for the younger doe. She had stopped sobbing a while ago and seemed almost unresponsive, a withdrawn look in her eyes. Grigor recognized trauma when he saw it. She was a slight, weak little thing.