“The hospitals!” he blurted, more to himself than Vi. “Did you—”

“Of course I did,” Vi muttered. “I’m not an idiot. I called the hospitals, the police, the hotel. I even called Uncle Jim.”

That knowledge made him pause. “You have an Uncle Jim?”

Vi nodded. “He’s Dad’s brother. He has a farm out in Alberta.”

The way Juliette had gone on, he’d assumed it was just her and Vi in the world.

“Why didn’t he…?”

Vi arched an eyebrow. “Take us in when we had no one?” she finished for him, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “None of them did. Dad owed them too much money. They weren’t going to add to that debt by taking on his kids. Thank God Juliette was eighteen when Dad finally died, otherwise we’d both probably be lost in the system or something. Uncle Jim was the only one that sort of offered, but he’s a total pervert. Likes little girls. Not that anyone in the family would ever say it out loud. Juliette refused.” She shook her head. “Anyway, what did you do to Juliette? Why did she leave?”

Killian turned back to the window, unable to keep looking into those golden eyes. “Because I told her to. It was the only way I knew how to keep her safe.”

“Safe from what?”

“Me.”

“Sir.”

Frank appeared in the doorway, his movement hurried. He was breathing hard like he’d ran all the way there. Every hard bulge of muscle was rigid, as tense as the muscles on his face. In his hand was a yellow envelope.

Killian’s entire world jittered, going in and out of focus between black and white and color. The room shifted between present and past as he remembered being ten and standing where Vi was, watching as Frank brought that same yellow envelope to his father. Then the room was back and Vi was on her feet and Frank was watching Killian with the same grim expression he’d given all those years ago.

“No…”

Vi, as white as the snow outside the window, peered from one to the other with the frantic desperation of a spooked rabbit. Her hands were shaking as they lifted and clapped over her mouth.

“What?” Her voice wobbled. “What is it?”

Frank never looked away from Killian. “What would you like me to do, sir?”

Burn it! Break it! He wanted to scream. Destroy it. It couldn’t be true if no one saw it. But he knew it didn’t work that way. Things weren’t less true just because he wished it.

“Sir?”

No. No. God, no he couldn’t. Not again.

“Is it about Juliette?” Vi demanded of Frank. “Is it a ransom demand? I’m calling the police—”

In five long strides, Frank was next to the girl. Her phone was taken from her before the numbers could be dialed.

“Give that back!” Vi screamed at him. “We have to call the police!”

“They can’t help her,” Frank told her calmly, but with stern authority.

Tears rained along her cheeks, looking silver in the light. Her brown eyes went from Frank to Killian and hardened. She flew at him, hands fisted. With a shriek, she slammed both into his chest.

“Find her! Find her!” Every scream was followed by another crack of her fists raining down on Killian’s chest, his shoulders, arms and even his face. He felt none of it. “You did this! This is your fault!”

Frank pulled her off, kicking and screaming loud enough to bring the house down. Killian stayed frozen in his own nightmare as the girl was hauled from the room. He had no idea what happened next, but the floor was suddenly beneath his hands and knees and everything he’d eaten that day, which thankfully wasn’t much, came up with a violence that took bits of his stomach lining with it. Hot and cold waves rushed along the heaving curve of his spine, plastering his top to his back. Sweat dampened his temples and rolled into his already burning eyes and still the attacks continued.

Another scream echoed, one that only he could hear. The high pitched wail of his mother, begging her captors to stop. The shriek of her pain as they’d carved into her, as they’d taken turns doing things no one should ever have to endure. Those images had come in an envelope just like the one Frank was bringing to him now.

“It’s not possible,” he wheezed. “It’s not possible.”

Frank’s large, capable hands tucked beneath his arms and Killian was lifted to his feet. He was taken to his chair and seated. Frank left his side and returned a moment later with a damp washcloth. Killian used it to wipe his face and mouth.

“It’s not possible,” he said again, slightly calmer. “I killed them. I killed all of them. There was no one left.” He raised his eyes to the other man. “I left no one, Frank.”

“Perhaps someone—”

Killian shook his head. “No, no, it’s not possible. It’s not…” A sound between a sob and a groan left him. “They have Juliette. God, they have her.”

He felt sick all over again. More images he’d fought and buried for the last twenty two years rode over him, digging talons and barbs into his soul. Images of the bright afternoon his father’s scream had woken him from a fitful slumber, of running downstairs only to be grabbed by Frank, but not soon enough to be saved the sight of his mother’s bloody, broken, and naked body cradled in his father’s lap. That would be Juliette. He would wake in the wee hours of the morning to find her…

“Sir!” Frank’s sharp commanding voice spiked through the vortex Killian had been steadily sinking into. It shattered through the choppy film of his past and brought him slamming back into a cold reality he wanted nothing to do with. “May I suggest you watch the video? It’s only the first.”

Not many would understand that. Telling someone it was the first torture video in a long line of more to come wasn’t a comfort. But Killian understood. His mother’s video hadn’t been more than her sitting in front of the camera as a male voice warned of her fate. She’d been so pale. Her dark hair had been in tangles, but it was her eyes that had held so much defiance. She had been the picture of calm.

The first video was a lie to lure him into believing he stood a chance at saving her, just like his father had. But it would still assure him she was safe, even if it was temporary.

Frank tore the envelope open. Killian didn’t watch. He stared at the mountain of papers across his desk, but the sound made him flinch. His fingers creaked around the facecloth. Frank inserted the disk into the driver and the video automatically began playing.

Juliette, wearing the same clothes he’d seen her in last, sat on a metal chair. A concrete wall, one that could be found in just about any basement, stood at her back. Her blonde hair was matted and hung around her drawn face. There was a gash on her lower lip that he recognized as self-inflected. Harsh beams of light blazed down on her with a ferocity that made her squint against it.

“Now!” a voice hissed off camera.

Juliette blinked a few times and struggled to focus. “My name is Juliette Romero,” she began, her voice weak and hoarse. “And I am … what does that say?”

The camera gave a shudder.

“Uninjured!” the same gruff voice hissed.

Juliette gave a small nod. “And I am uninjured, for now. I have not been mistreated. I am given food and … water?”

“Yes!”

“Water. But all of that can change if you don’t find me.”

The screen went dark.

Neither Killian nor Frank moved, not even when the video started from the beginning on a loop. He watched it run through twice more before turning it off. He pulled the CD out of the drive, set it gently back in its plastic case and held it out to Frank.

“Find someone who can tear that apart and tell me everything about it,” he ordered. “I want to know what camera was used, when, where, and by whom.”

Frank took the video.

Unlike his mother’s abduction, Killian had technology on his side. He would track that mother fucker to the ends of the earth.