“It was hand delivered,” Killian noted, prolonging the inevitable. “They came right to the house.”

“I questioned the carrier personally,” Frank said. “His deliveries are sorted at the office and are left waiting for him when he gets to work. The package was there when he picked up his haul this morning.”

Next to Frank, on the other side of Killian’s desk, Vi shifted anxiously. The floorboards creaked beneath her fidgeting feet. Her brown eyes stayed fixed on the envelope the way a dying person waited desperately for news of a cure. Her thumb nail was tucked between her teeth, the skin around it torn and bleeding.

She hadn’t left Killian’s office since her arrival. Even at night while everyone else slept, she sat curled up in the chair, occasionally dozing off for a few minutes before jerking awake. Her face had lost its vibrancy. There were dark bags beneath her eyes and deep grooves cut around her mouth. Occasionally, she’d stumble into his washroom to bathe, then she’d be right back to sitting and waiting for something to happen.

Killian hated her for it. Hated that she was a reminder that he wasn’t doing enough, a reminder that Juliette still wasn’t home. But he couldn’t ask her to leave either. Not because she would refuse, but because he’d promised Juliette that he would protect her sister. It was a sick, cruel joke, asking him to do any such thing when he’d been incapable of protecting Juliette, but he was trying. Plus, it was nice to have someone else suffering with him.

“Are we going to watch it?” she asked, her voice barely a raspy whisper.

Frank looked to Killian, asking the same question without asking.

It was the second video, Killian assured himself while staring at the envelope as though it contained the exact date he would die. They wouldn’t hurt her in the second video. But that wasn’t entirely reassuring. They hadn’t followed the script so far. With his mother, the videos were daily. One every day for two weeks. In a week, they had only sent Killian two. He wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it seemed infinitely important. Them not playing by the same rules, while simultaneously giving hints to it, left Killian in the dark, unable to foresee what would come next. It gave them an edge he didn’t like.

“Sir?”

Killian pulled in a breath and exhaled. “Put it in.”

Vi’s breathing grew faster and thicker the longer it took Frank to insert the CD, to bring up the video and step aside. Her nostrils flared with every second that passed and nothing happened. Killian couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn he could hear her heart drumming in her chest, or was that his? Unsure and not caring, he turned his attention to the flicker of movement on his screen. The black opened to Juliette in that same chair, in front of that same, grimy wall. There was no color on her face, except her eyes. Whether it was the stress of what was happening or the harsh light drowning her, she reminded him of a ghost. She sat so small with her shoulders pulled up around her ears. Her hair was a tangled mess hanging limp along her back. She poked a tongue out and traced it unsteadily across dry, cracked lips.

“Go!” someone instructed.

The camera gave a slight jitter.

“My name is Juliette Romero and I have not been injured. Not yet. But my time is running out. If you ever wish to see me alive again, I will be waiting for you under the golden arches.”

The hint was no help at all.

“She looked okay,” Vi choked out, sounding shaken and relieved all at the same time. “Didn’t she? I mean, she wasn’t hurt or dead, so that’s good, right?” She sucked on her bottom lip, pulling it in tight when her chin wobbled. “They still haven’t asked for money. Aren’t they supposed to…?”

“This isn’t about money.” Killian rose out of his chair and paced to the window and a world too big on the other side.

Bones popped as Vi cracked her knuckles and fretted. Frank stood stoic and silent next to her. But it was the look on the man’s face that perked Killian’s curiosity.

“What is it?” he asked.

Frank lowered his narrowed gaze to the table, but his brows remained knitted. “It could be nothing, sir.”

“I don’t care,” he prompted. “Even the smallest thing might help us.”

Frank inclined his head. “I was simply wondering if perhaps you were mistaken about … taking care of all that were involved.”

Killian frowned. “I was very thorough. Whoever these people are, they are not the same ones from before.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

He was about to tell the man that he was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt, when a thought came to him. It was distant and faded and so small in the sea of black he’d been crashing through since his father’s death that it hadn’t even properly registered.

“No…”

“Sir?”

It had been so long ago.

“There is someone,” he murmured, mind lost in the cyclone of his own realization. “But I…”

“What?” Vi demanded. “Who?”

“Erik Yolvoski.” His gaze fixed with Frank’s. “He was just a boy the last time I saw him, but he died eight years ago. There was a flood and his car was washed over a bridge. I went to his funeral. It’s not him.”

“What do you think she meant by golden arches?” Vi looked to Killian. “Did you have a fight with Ronald McDonald?”

“Whatever the significance, it ties with something you have or haven’t done, sir.” Frank raised his eyebrows in question. “Is there any place in particular you recall that may or may not have arches?”

Killian shook his head. “None that want me dead.”

Vi exhaled. “These guys clearly suck at hostage negotiation.”

“That’s because they’re toying with me,” Killian muttered, returning his attention to the window. “They have no intention of letting her go.”

“So … so, what then?” Vi whispered. “What do they want?”

Killian shook his head. “I have no idea, but we’re going to find out.”

With that, he turned and marched back to his desk. Frank moved out of the way as Killian made a straight line to his chair. He dropped into it and wheeled himself beneath the desk. He reached for a pad and pen and tossed both to Vi.

“Sit down. You’re going to help me.”

She didn’t ask how. Her butt hit the chair before he’d stopped speaking. The pen and pad were in her hand, one poised over the other as she waited for his next instructions.

“I’m going to give you a list of names,” he told her as he pulled open his bottom drawer. “You’re going to write them down and then cross them off after I’ve called them.”

Again, she asked no questions, but nodded obediently.

Killian removed the thick, leather bound book nestled at the very bottom and set it down on the desk. Over his shoulder, he heard Frank suck in a breath, but he too said nothing.

The book was as old as his name was. It had belonged to the very first McClary back before his family had moved from Ireland, back before cars and reality TV shows, back when homes were built out of sticks and mud. It was generations old and had been passed down ever since. Each McClary had taken turns marking the pages with names and dates next to a neat description of what they were owed. The thing was the size of a large phonebook and weighed a little more than a bowling ball, but it would be the thing that saved Juliette. It had to be.

Mind set, Killian opened to the first page and began to read the names out loud. The scratch of Vi’s pen filled the room. Frank stood silent as Killian worked. When it was finished, Killian closed the book and tucked it away once more. But rather than ask Vi to give him the first name, he turned to his computer. He called an emergency meeting amongst the other five organization members. None were happy about being summoned, but they listened as Killian explained the situation. It was in their right to say no and power off, but he knew they wouldn’t, not when it meant the opportunity to have Killian McClary in their debt. All five agreed to get their men in on the search. They would fan across their territories for even the hint of Juliette’s name.