Read The Pact (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 17) for Free Online Page B

stopping momentarily in Clara’s room. Once he cleared the house, retrieved his briefcase from the car, and secured the front door, he poured himself a glass of wine and headed down the hall to Clara’s room.
     
    He stared at her bed, the rumpled sheets, the untidy desk, the cluttered dresser. He wasn’t too hard on her now as he was the only parent. Perform well in school. Aim for a well-paying job. Work in the government somewhere, just like her dad. Give back to the people. Do something. But don’t slouch around, get piercings—like your dad—or get tattoos. What worked for Anton did not always work for Clara.
     
    Their biggest issue had been fashion. He knew fashion. He dressed better than ninety-five percent of all government employees and he knew it.
     
    But try to tell a teenage girl that, or the budding woman Clara became, and she went into hysterics. Even though they resolved to let her choose her own clothes, he still advised her. Much to her chagrin, Clara listened to his advice several times over the past year or two. In her early twenties, their relationship had become more of an adult-to-adult understanding. He had actively stopped advising and stopped trying to teach her things. She had responded by being more responsible, more grown up. Mutual respect had formed between them as well as a higher level of trust.
     
    The drive to Copenhagen yesterday morning had been wonderful. They had bonded as father and daughter, even listened to each other’s music. On the road yesterday, he played her his Harry Connick Jr. album and she played the Danish group, Nik and Jay, and then the new Danish phenom, Lukas Graham. He had to admit, he liked Lukas Graham a hell of lot more than he expected.
     
    But now Clara was gone. According to the caller, she was kidnapped and going to die unless he killed a random girl and proved it on video.
     
    There was no guarantee that Clara would be set free. If the caller was to be believed, she was in Toronto, Canada, a world away, a six-hour time difference.
     
    Anton drank a little wine from his goblet, still standing in Clara’s bedroom door, surveying her room. He set the glass on her desk and began looking through her notebooks.
     
    He couldn’t believe she would fly to Canada without telling him a thing. They trusted each other. They were solid together. Unless the caller—or Damien—had told Clara who her father really was. If she knew what he did on a weekly basis in Aarhus, he had no doubt she would flee Denmark, and Canada was one of the best nations to start fresh. He’d heard people say that Denmark was a smaller version of Canada.
     
    Clara’s notebooks spoke volumes of her hobbies, her interests, and a guy she was thinking of dating. Nothing in both of the ringed pads of paper talked of a trip to Canada. Where did she get the money? Did the caller supply the money? Did the caller persuade Clara to fly to Canada just to walk into a trap? But why? What was the personal gain? It seemed a little too elaborate.
     
    She had to have been lured to Canada. Who could kidnap someone in Denmark and successfully transport them that far?
     
    So many questions without any answers. He had no idea who called, why his daughter was in Canada, or what would happen next. Anton couldn’t think of a single enemy who would come after him in such a way.
     
    The one thing he knew was that he was no murderer. That left him a week to solve this mystery and save his daughter. A week? Is that all his daughter was worth?
     
    He slammed the notepad down on the desk as he tried to control his emotions. In one large gulp, he drank half of the glass of wine.
     
    A search for her iPad or computer turned up empty. He saw Clara with her cell phone yesterday so he didn’t expect to find that in her room, either.
     
    Without a single thread of evidence to go on, he drank the rest of his wine in Clara’s bedroom. He thought about her demeanor on the ride to Copenhagen yesterday. Nothing