The Wrong Girl

77

Jane couldn’t move. Couldn’t risk it. From her place against the wall-light switch stabbing her in the back through her jacket-her line of sight was a narrow sliver.

She couldn’t see the office door across the carpeted hall. She’d have to listen for the click of the latch. Listen for footsteps.

When whoever it was got close enough to her, she’d have them in view. Briefly. Long enough to know the score. If it was Jake and all was well, she’d stay hidden, and he’d never know she was there. Nor would anyone else.

In that case, she’d leave, come back later. Make an appointment. All by the book.

Her eyes hurt from having to look sideways. Her neck was complaining. But she couldn’t risk a move.

Footsteps. A door closing.

They were coming.

Should he yell? Try to move the couch? Somehow yank the couch across the carpet to the drawer where the guns were? With both hands handcuffed? That’d never work. Incredible that he had his damn handcuff keys, the spare ones, tucked in his wallet. Fat lot of good that’d do now.

Supe was going to kill him. And-it crossed Jake’s mind-maybe he deserved it. His partner was about to be murdered. An innocent person was being abducted, maybe killed, too.

He’d blown it.

“Still time to change your so-called mind, Munson.”

Paul DeLuca’s voice? Jane was sure she was right. Munson must be Collins Munson, the Brannigan hotshot Ella had mentioned. His name was all over the files she’d found in Ella’s kitchen. Was he the one sending the wrong children? Had Jake and DeLuca found out about it? That’s why they were here?

Damn it. She still couldn’t see them.

Then she could.

Three people, DeLuca, certainly, who seemed to be walking slowly in front of-a man in a tweed jacket. And a woman. Crying? Yes. The woman-who was she?-was crying.

Holy shit. Jane clutched her phone. The man-Munson? Had a gun to the woman’s head. Why was DeLuca walking with them?

Where was Jake?

No gunfire. No screams. No commotion. So Jake wasn’t shot. Was he-well, where the hell was he? And why? He’d told her to stay away. Not that he knew it was her.

Now here was DeLuca, walking with a guy carrying a gun. Why wasn’t Paul doing anything to stop that man?

If Jake was okay, why wasn’t he doing something to stop him?

Was DeLuca-in on this? DeLuca?

She took a step forward, on tiptoe, holding her breath. Watched the trio stride down the hall. The woman tripped in her patent leather heels. The tall man’s arm clamped around her, pulled her back into place. The gun.

As Jane peered after them, baffled, terrified, and completely unsure, DeLuca turned his head for a brief glance back at the office they’d all just left.

Jane had never seen such a look of anguish.

All his fault.

Ricker, dead, because of him. And now, DeLuca was in deep shit, and Ardith Brannigan, and it was his fault again. Jake tried to stand, thrashing, yanking the idiot cuffs and the idiot couch, which didn’t move an inch.

“Damn it!” he yelled. “Damn it! Damn it!”

He closed his eyes, briefly, in disdain. Save your breath, he thought. Maybe no one would ever come uncuff him. Maybe that would be better.

That was Jake! Jake’s voice. He was yelling. He wasn’t dead. Jane took a chance, swiveled, peered down the hallway. The front door was closing. She saw a flash of daylight, then three silhouettes, then the front door swinging closed.

She raced to the end of the hall, tote bag slamming against her back, tripping, stumbling, almost falling in her frantic haste to get to Jake.

Wait. She stopped, bending almost double with her sudden decision. What if someone else was in that room?

She could hear only the sound of her own breathing.

If she went in, she might be in trouble. If she didn’t, Jake might be in trouble. If she did, they might both be in trouble.

“Jake!” she yelled. Fine, it might be the exactly wrong thing to do, let whoever was in there with Jake know she was there but-she dialed 911 as she ran to the office.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

Yeah. That was the question.