“You better make this quick. I say we have five minutes, max.”

Lynell looks from Ramsey to the man on the floor, lips parted slightly. She stands and walks to the door on shaky legs. Ramsey takes hold of the doorknob, prepared to open it as soon as she’s ready.

I love you, Danny, Lynell thinks as she grips the knives, tiptoeing through Eric’s bedroom. On the other side of the bed is a large wardrobe, its doors open to expose a row of expensive suits. The bed is neatly made with black pillows that contrast the white comforter.

She looks up at the large clock hanging above the bed. 10:07 a.m.

Lynell grips the handle of the knives and gives Ramsey a nod. He turns the knob and the door silently opens. She tiptoes through onto a rug that’s soft and gentle under her bare feet.

A desk sits in the middle of the room, facing the front door. Eric would have seen her as soon as she entered the room if he hadn’t been standing at the window, looking out. The chair is turned as if Eric had spun it around toward the window before getting up.

The rest of the room is a blur. All of Lynell’s attention is on her uncle. He’s speaking loudly, saying something about useless legal roadblocks, gesturing. He’s on the phone. He’s barefoot and dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. He looks so ordinary that Lynell almost wonders if she’s in the wrong office.

But no, this is Eric. Lynell bites down on her own teeth and raises the knives, prepared to step further into the room.

“I don’t care what you have to do! Find the kid or I’ll have you Registered!” he shouts and hangs up.

Lynell freezes, her heart jumping into her throat.

Find the kid. Is he talking about Anna? Does that mean he doesn’t have her? She’s gone? How?

Eric makes a move as if to turn but then just drops into his chair, his back still turned to her.

Each of Lynell’s breaths feel jagged as she sidesteps the desk, coming up behind him silently, her every step swallowed by the rug. Her heart beats so fast that she’s afraid she might have a heart attack. She can feel it between her ribs and behind her knees, which seem to be growing weaker with each passing second.

She reaches out, knives extended.

The chair turns.

And Eric sees her. First, his eyes open wide. Then his lips curl into a snarl. Before he can stand, Lynell leaps forward and presses the knives against his throat. Eric yells and as he goes to grab Lynell’s wrist, she pivots so she’s standing behind him, careful to keep the knives in place. She pushes harder, feeling his skin give in to the pressure.

“Good morning, Uncle Eric,” Lynell says. She feels fear morph into anger and hatred, filling every fiber of her being, sharpening her mind.

“Lynell,” Eric says, the word more like a rumble in his chest. “How did you get in here?”