“Quite clear,” I say.

“All right.”

Another quick pause, and then he chuckles, again with the slight accent I can’t place. “Isn’t this the point where you warn me that you’ll kill me if anything happens to your husband and daughter?”

“No,” I say.

“Really?”

I say sharply, “Yeah. Really. You want to know why?”

“Of course,” he says.

“Because I don’t have the goddamn time to waste.”

And I hang up on him.

CHAPTER 3

AFTER DISCONNECTING the call, I check the burner’s screen and memorize the ten-digit phone number.

I look away to the far wall, jam-packed with photos of me in full battle rattle in Afghanistan and Iraq, Tom in his reporter’s gear somewhere in Venezuela, our wedding photo from Bar Harbor, photos of the two of us with an increasingly taller and older Denise, and I repeat the number under my breath three times, look back at the burner phone.

Exact match.

I’ll never forget that number—not now, not ever.

I pick up the Ruger, drop the burner phone in my jacket pocket, and get to work.

Upstairs first, to our bedroom, where I fling open the closet door and retrieve a black zippered duffel bag with two carrying straps from a locked trunk. My go bag, filled with spare clothes, water, rations, cash, a SIG Sauer P320, and other items. Tom’s go bag is in there as well, and when we first moved in three years back, I was surprised he didn’t give me any pushback about having a go bag prepared.

“Amy,” he said, while we were washing dishes together, “I’ve been grabbing an airplane, boat, or train to get to a story for years. Don’t worry about me. I know the drill.”

But one of us didn’t know the drill, and I often hoped she would never learn it. Nestled behind Tom’s duffel bag is a pink-and-white Minnie Mouse knapsack, which I’ve never told Denise about and which I’ve always maintained. My ten-year-old daughter’s go bag, to quickly go with Mom and Dad in case of disaster, natural or man-made. Denise’s mom, determined to protect her daughter, no matter what.

And Denise’s mom, a failure.

For a moment I grab one of Tom’s shirts, bring it to my face. Tom doesn’t smoke and doesn’t wear cologne, but his scent is here, and I rub a sleeve against my face—so many memories rushing in, from first kisses to the birth of Denise and our many moves across the country.

Then I slam the closet door shut before I break down and lose my focus. I can’t lose my focus.

I just can’t.

I race downstairs and damn it all to hell, a phone rings and it’s mine, stashed in my soft leather briefcase, and I’m tempted to ignore it while I prep to get the hell going, but suppose—just suppose—it’s good news?

Tom was a tough reporter and is now a tough writer, working on a nonfiction book. I know he wouldn’t sit back and be a nice, cooperative prisoner. He would fight back. He would look for means and ways of escape. He would—