“Yeah.”

Silence from the other end. “Are you still at the motel?”

It was Aleks. He was calling Omar. He was calling Omar to see if Michael was still under lock and key. Why hadn’t Kolya placed the call? Michael tried to remember Omar’s voice. It was deep. He hoped the background noise covered him. “Yeah.”

Another hesitation. This time Michael heard the girls talking in the background. They were with Aleks. His heart shattered.

“Do not come here Mr Roman,” Aleks said. “If you do you will not like what you find.”

“Listen,” Michael said. “Just tell me what you want. You can have everything I have. Just don’t hurt my family.”

For a moment, Michael thought Aleks might have hung up. He had not. “If you come here you will drown in your family’s blood.”

The phone clicked. The connection was broken.

Michael slammed his fist into the dashboard three times. He pushed the speedometer to eighty.

THEY WERE READY. The woman had packed a pair of bags for herself and the girls, as well as some food. Everything Aleks needed was in his leather shoulder bag. The gear was stacked near the front door.

In a moment Aleks would collect the girls from the backyard, explaining to them that they were going on a little journey. They would take Kolya’s SUV. They would find somewhere to hide for just a few hours, until midnight, then they would head for the Canadian border.

By this time tomorrow they would be in Canada, and he would be one step closer to becoming deathless. By this time tomorrow the woman would be dead, and Anna and Marya would be his. This had not gone as smoothly as he would have liked, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

You’ll never get them out of the country. Someone is going to catch you.

Perhaps Abigail was right. He touched the two empty crystal vials on the chain around his neck. If they closed in on him and the girls, he knew what he had to do.

For now, though, he still had his daughters, and there were no obstacles on the horizon.

Then the doorbell rang.

ABBY LOOKED OUT the front window. In the drive was a late-model dark sedan. She had not heard anyone drive up, and she always did. She was attuned to the sounds around her house. But the horror of this day, as well as the throbbing pain in her head, made it impossible.

She looked at Aleks. He said nothing, but rather glanced through the back window at the girls. He stepped into the hallway, out of sight.

Abby crossed the foyer, opened the door. On the porch was a tall, slender black woman in a dark suit. The woman had the look of authority. Abby knew the demeanor, the posture, and she was suddenly even more frightened.

Through the screen door Abby said “Yes?”

“Are you Abigail Roman?”

“Yes.”

The woman held up a badge wallet. A gold shield. NYPD. “My name is Detective Desiree Powell. I’m with Queens Homicide. May I come in for a moment?”

It took all of Abby’s strength and concentration not to look anywhere but the detective’s eyes. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“I just have a few routine questions. May I come in?”

“I’m terribly busy right now.”

The woman put her hand on the screen door handle. Abby let go. The woman smiled, opened the door, stepped inside. She did a quick perusal of the entrance, living room, the stairs leading to the second floor. “I know your husband, Michael. We’ve worked a few cases together,” the woman said. “By the way, he’s not here by any chance, is he?”

“No,” Abby said. “He’s in court today.”

Powell glanced at her watch. “They’re adjourned for the day, I believe. I called his office and they said he’s gone for the day. Would you happen to know where he is right now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

Powell gave a closer look at the living room, its décor. “You have a lovely home.”

Here comes the bullshit, Abby thought. She had to find a way to get this woman out of her house. “Thank you. Now if –”

“Are you all right?”

Abby instinctively touched her face. She had iced it down, and the swelling was not as noticeable as she thought it was going to be. “I’m fine. Got whacked with a tennis ball this afternoon.”

Powell nodded, clearly not believing the story. She was a cop. She encountered a lot of married women who walked into doors, tripped in the shower, slipped on the ice. As a nurse, Abby had met her share, too.

“I’ve never played. Always wanted to. Having you been playing long?”

“Just a few years,” Abby said.

“Are your girls here?”

“Yes.” She pointed out the back window. Charlotte and Emily were sitting at the picnic table in the backyard.

Powell looked out the window. “Oh my. They’re adorable. Michael talks about them all the time. How old are they?”

“They just turned four.”

“Can I ask what their names are?”

“Charlotte and Emily.”

Powell smiled. “Like the Brontë sisters.”

“Like the Brontë sisters.”

Powell stepped further into the house. “You’re probably wondering what this is all about.”

“Yes. In fact, we were just about to leave in a few minutes.”

Powell glanced at the bags by the door. Two lilac nylon duffels, two bags of groceries, and a man’s leather messenger bag. “Going on a trip?”

“Yes,” Abby said. “We’re going to visit my parents.”

“Oh yeah? Whereabouts?”

Abby took a short step towards the door, the kind of move you make when you are trying to usher someone out of your house. “They’re in Westchester County. Near Pound Ridge.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful up there. Especially this time of year.” Powell angled her body in front of Abby, her back now to the hallway leading to the kitchen. She pointed at the man’s leather bag. “Is Michael coming with you?”

“He’s going to meet us up there.”

Powell nodded, held Abby’s gaze for a moment. She wasn’t buying any of this. She took a notebook out of her pocket, flipped it open. “Well, I won’t keep you too long.” She glanced at a page of her book. “Do you know a woman named Sondra Arsenault?”

The name was familiar to Abby. She couldn’t immediately place it. She also knew, from five years of living with a prosecutor, that the best way to handle this was to plead memory loss. “I’m not sure. Who is she?”

“She’s a social worker,” Powell said. “She lives over in Putnam County with her husband James.”

“The names don’t really ring a bell.”

“They have twin girls. Just like you.”

Abby knew that this detective would not be asking these questions unless she already had the answers. And she now knew what this was about. “I’m sorry. I don’t know them.”

“Okay,” she said. “What about a man named Viktor Harkov?”

Abby brought her hand to her mouth, trying to keep the emotion inside. She couldn’t. It was all about to come tumbling out, and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. She could still smell the dead man on her, could still taste the blood. She leaned forward, whispered: “You have to help us. He’s here. In the house.”

“Who’s here?”

In that moment Abby saw a shadow move behind Powell, a darting gray silhouette on the wall. It was Aleks. In his hand was Abby’s .25 semi-automatic pistol. There was no doubt in Abby’s mind that he had reloaded it.

Abby looked over the detective’s shoulder. “Don’t.”

Powell understood.

She spun around.

BEFORE DETECTIVE DESIREE POWELL turned fully, she saw the soft yellow muzzle flash, heard three quick blasts. She felt as if she had been mule-kicked in the side of the chest, the pain roaring through her body like a white-hot freight train. The air was pummeled from her lungs. She felt herself falling backwards.

She hit the floor hard, the pain in her chest turning an icy cold, her legs falling numb. She looked at the ceiling, the patterns in the stippled finish starting to swirl, to coalesce into a Dali dreamscape.