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was staring at it through the windows of her prison.
    Claire wondered if she should have opened the drapes. Her discovery made her situation direr. If she wasn’t in Atlanta, where was she? And how did she get here? She looked at the stupid switch and considered shutting away the bleak outside world. It wasn’t helping her attitude. Claire decided the switch didn’t help her attitude or the non-English speaking servant, the expensive clothes, or the lavish surroundings. She was being held prisoner by a crazy man who somehow believed that he now owned her. Her location, luxurious surroundings, fancy clothes—none of it mattered. She could have been in a cinder block cell. She was still a prisoner, and the stupid stuff wouldn’t help that.
    As hours and days passed, Claire had nothing to do but think. She mostly thought about escaping, fantasizing about running through the massive wooded scene outside her window. In her fantasy, salvation was through the trees. But she couldn’t get outside the room, much less to the trees. After a few days, in a moment of heated desperation, Claire took one of the chairs from the table and tried to break the panes of glass on the French doors. The damn chair bounced off the glass. She searched the suite for anything heavy. The closest thing was a thick book. Even with repeated strikes, it had no effect on the windows.
    The hours and days spent alone made her yearn for the hustle and bustle of the Red Wing. She wondered about the regulars and her coworkers. Had anyone reported her missing? These thoughts usually resulted in tears and a headache. In an attempt at self-preservation and sanity, she began to think about the past. Was there something in the past that led to this?
    Liking Earth science and weather, meteorology seemed a natural choice. She loved the unknown. As a teenager, she experienced her first tornado. The power and unpredictability of the storm fascinated her. It exhilarated her to watch warm and cold fronts collide. She loved to learn more about it and the whys. The computers could help you predict the weather. But it is such a small part. Why do some fronts stall and create floods when days before the models predicted only an inch of rain? How can a warm sunny day suddenly turn stormy? She wanted to understand it better, to control the outcomes in some way, perhaps minimize its destructive forces. But now a degree in meteorology was useless.
    Near the end of March . . .
    He’d been in the apartment on multiple occasions. Thankfully, this would be his last visit. Looking at his TAG Heuer watch, he knew the movers should be there in thirty minutes. He slowly walked around the small rooms. Starting in her bedroom, he surveyed what remained of her belongings. Everything else, the clothes and household items, had been placed in boxes labeled for donation. The full-sized bed was stripped. Only the mattress, boxed springs, and frame remained.
    On top of the dresser were the items Anthony pondered. There were pictures in frames, indicating some sentimental attachment. He knew most of the faces. Some he’d seen in person. Others he learned about through whatever means necessary. There was a picture of her grandparents in one of those cheap frames labeled “Grandparents.” Then there was an old picture of Claire with her sister Emily and their parents taken in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. If he had to guess, Claire was about twelve or thirteen. There was a close-up of Claire and Emily at Emily’s wedding. He would have known the location even without the evidence of Emily’s veil. He remembered the day. It was hot and humid, even for Indiana. The last was a more recent photo of Emily and John sitting on a sofa.
    Also laid out on the dresser were a few pieces of jewelry. The inexpensive things had been included in the donation boxes. These pieces, however, were of finer quality. The pearl necklace on a white gold chain was the same one she wore in the wedding picture