CHAPTER 126: WHAT DO YOU WANT?

Ivy waved at Reese as the car eased away. She closed the door behind her, took two steps down the dark hallway toward the living room and then something hot and hard hit the side of her face. Pain flared white and immediate; the room swam for a second and a high, startled yelp tore out of her.

A heavy hand clamped over her mouth with enough force to muffle the sound, while a glint of steel flashed in the corner of her vision. The world narrowed into the press of palm against lips, the metallic smell of the blade.

The hand on her mouth tightened and a voice — low, amused and ugly — whispered right at her ear: "Be quiet or I will gut you right here and I will not be nice about it."

Ivy felt the breath leave her lungs in a long, hot exhale; every muscle in her body tensed. She nodded so hard she felt dizzy, frantic little motions, because arguing with a man holding a knife seemed stupid in ways she’d never want to explore. The grip finally eased, enough for her to breathe but not enough to move.

"What... what do you want?" she croaked as the man let her go. The dark made their faces unreadable. Shadows hid features; the knife’s edge caught a sliver of light and winked. In the darkness she could hear the scrape of fabric as one of them shifted.

A hard shove sent her stumbling forward. "Sit!" barked the taller one, and the blunt force of the command snapped her into motion. She dropped onto the couch, the cushions sighing beneath her, forcing herself to keep her breathing quiet and even. "Please... I don’t have any money," she pleaded automatically.

"I’m begging you, don’t hurt me." Her palms were slick in her lap.

"Shut up!" the shorter intruder hissed. He had a voice that suggested he enjoyed the power of it. Ivy shrank back, body shaking so hard she thought her knees might give. She tried to make herself small, to be a piece of the furniture, invisible and therefore safe.

One of the men eased himself down on the coffee table opposite her, the knife held across his knees. He was dangerously calm. "You are going to get a phone call in a few minutes," he said. "I hope that will be encouragement enough for you to do exactly as I say."

He spoke as if reading from a script, and the script meant to bend her life in whatever direction they wanted.

"What... what phone call?" Ivy managed; tears were already stinging at the corners of her eyes. The house had shrunk to the size of a shoebox — the ceiling oppressive, the shadows too close. Her hands were trembling so badly.

Every instinct in her body screamed to run, to call someone, to fight — but the cold blade glinting in the intruder’s lap and the steady, cruel calm of his companion made the options disappear.

"You will answer it like a good little girl now, won’t you?" the man with the knife purred, as if reciting lines he’d practiced on frightened people before.

"Yes, yes, I will," she choked. Her knees felt weak.

The phone in her bag started to ring as if on cue. She fumbled for it with clumsy fingers, knocking the heel of her hand against the coffee table. The caller ID flashed: Nursing Home. Her stomach dropped so low she thought she might be sick. She swallowed and took the call anyway, voice brittle.

"Miss Morales?" The voice on the other end was professional. "I’m calling from the nursing home. I’m really sorry—"

Ivy’s breath hitched. "Yes... yes?"

"I’m really sorry to be telling you this," the nurse said. "Your mother has had a bad fall. She’s been taken to St. Theresa’s emergency. You should come immediately."

A hot, animal sound — half sob, half cry — ripped from Ivy. "What... what did you do to her?"

"Keep talking!" The shorter man’s voice snapped. He tightened his grip on the knife.

"The doctor says she’s stable but must be monitored. You should come now."

"Oh my God," Ivy whispered. "I’ll be there. I’m coming." She ended the call and looked into the dark at the man.

"You will go to the hospital," he said. "You will see your mother. You will drop a little note at her bedside. You will go back out. If you even whisper a single word to anyone — the police, a friend, your fiancé — my men are in St. Theresa’s right now, posing as doctors. They will make sure your mother gets a hot shot. Understand?"

Ivy’s throat closed. The name of the place became a physical stone in her mouth. "No— you can’t—" she started, but the knife glinted and the other man’s jaw tightened.

"And as a plan B," the man continued, "we are holding someone else you care about. Trish? Is that her name?"

Ivy’s heart seized. "What— Trish?" She swallowed a scream that wanted to tear the room apart.

The man with the knife made a slow, satisfying nod. "Yes. Trish. She’s with us. If you want her to be returned safe, you will do exactly as we say. You will not speak to anyone. You will not go to the cops. You will write the note, exactly as I state, drop it on the bedside table — no more, no less — and then wait for our next call."

"Please," Ivy breathed. "Please, don’t— please don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything. I’ll do whatever you want. Just— please—"

"Good. That’s the sort of cooperation we like. When the nurse asks you to sign a visitor’s form, sign it. When they ask for ID, give them everything. Don’t attract attention. Walk in, sit for a moment, leave a note, and walk out. And remember — we are watching the hospital."

*****

Evans paused mid-step, a wineglass hovering between his fingers. He set the glass down carefully on the counter and leaned both palms on the marble, watching the steam curl up from the roast as if it might carry answers with it.

The private investigator’s report had landed on his desk that afternoon: She’d been here. All these time. She had a daughter.