"Aunt Leslie has been really nice to me, and they let me have ice cream. Chocolate. But this place is yucky. Rats and cockroaches and spiders. And there's a—"

"Hey." The man's voice was too loud and too close.

"I love you," Marisa said.

The man answered. "Yeah, I'll tell her. You have 'til Friday to get me the money."

"You said a week," Nate said. "That gives us until Sunday."

"I changed my mind."

"We can't do Friday." Nate said. "If you want your money—"

"Fine. Saturday I want my money."

"Or proof of who stole it," Nate said. "That was the deal."

A second ticked by, two, then three before the man said, "If she doesn't have it, I need to know who does."

"Let's make the trade in New York," Nate suggested.

"I decide where and when."

"You'll have to give us a hint or some time to get there. We're not staying in the city."

Another moment of quiet. "Where you staying?"

"You want to stop by for a visit?"

"Just trying to figure the plan."

"You tell us where and when," Nate said, "and we'll be there. And remember, if you hurt the woman or that little girl, money's going to be the least of your problems."

"The girl's fine. Leslie's fine. Four days."

The line went dead.

Marisa held the phone in her hand long after the man hung up. She stared at it, willing her daughter's voice to come through again. Ana had sounded scared. But she was okay, and Leslie must've been, too, if she was taking care of Ana. Marisa should take solace in that.

But it had already been three days, and they were no closer to finding out who stole the money than they had been the day of the kidnapping.

Nate took the phone from her hand. He pushed up the armrest between them and wrapped his arms around her. She wept on his shoulder.

"They're still alive. The man wants his money. We're going to figure out who has it."

"What if we don't?"

"One step at a time, Marisa."

She sniffed and sat back. "If we don't, we have to say we do. We'll have to trick this guy into exposing Ana and Leslie. I'm going to get them home safely, or I'm going to die trying."

Chapter 13

LESLIE. The kidnapper had called her Leslie. Not that woman. Not even your sister.

Nate didn't know what to make of it, but he couldn't get the thought out of his mind as he turned onto a quiet suburban street in White Plains, New York, just an hour outside the city, and stopped in front of a two-story blue Colonial with black shutters and a wide front porch. The yard was well kept, and evergreen shrubs lined the front of the house. A BMW was parked in the narrow driveway.