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    She came to another major intersection, the traffic gods taking pity on her and favoring her with a green light. She made the turn, her apartment complex less than five minutes away.  
    “What is it that you want?”  
    He ignored her. “Would you believe it if I said I admired your husband? Or should I call him your ex-husband? You never got an official divorce, did you? How could you have after you disappeared like you did?”  
    Her fingers tightening once again around the steering wheel, she repeated, “What is it that you want?”  
    “I want you to hurry home. I want you to see your son. Only then will you truly understand the gravity of this situation.”  
    The gravity of this situation —she didn’t like those words, didn’t like them one bit, but before she could ask him what he meant Cain clicked off.  
    She tossed the phone on the passenger seat and kept driving. Her complex was now less than a mile away. It was a low-rent place, one of the cheapest in town, and while she could have afforded something nicer she had thought it best to keep a low profile. Besides, she and Matthew had gotten used to living simply over the past couple years, making due with what they had. She had purposely not bought a TV, wanting him to concentrate more on books, always reading to him at night.  
    The large wooden sign at the entrance said SUMMER RIDGE . It was a peculiar name for an apartment complex, seeing as people lived there year-round and was located nowhere near a ridge, but again, the rent was cheap, only six hundred a month for two bedrooms.  
    After she parked and grabbed her cell phone, she hurried for the stairs leading toward her apartment. She took the steps two at a time, gripping the railing for balance, because now that she was this close her body had begun to shake again.  
    She came to her apartment door, the key already prepped to be inserted in the lock like this was just another day coming home from work or the grocery store. She paused, thought a moment, then gripped her keys in her fist so three of them poked out between her fingers. She stepped to the door, reached out with her other hand, gripped the knob.  
    It should be locked—she had locked it herself this morning—but it turned easily in her hand.  
    She pushed the door opened. It creaked. She didn’t move.  
    “Matthew?” she called.
    There was no answer.  
    She started forward, slowly, holding the fist full of keys by her side. If Cain was here—if anyone other than her son was here—she would aim for their face, try to poke out one if not both of their eyes. There would be blood, yes, but she would manage. She would have to.  
    Despite her better judgment, she called out again.  
    “Matthew?”  
    Still no answer.  
    One slow step after another, taking her down the hallway past the table where she always placed her keys and the mail. A picture sat on the table, a photograph of her and Matthew taken last year at the Six Flags in St. Louis, the place her son had first been introduced to the marvel of roller coasters. He’d been too young and small to ride on them, but he loved watching them and they planned on returning this summer for his first ride.  
    The first room she came to was the kitchen. It was empty. She continued on to the living room. Her body had stopped shaking. Her breathing had slowed. She was suddenly calm and didn’t know why. She took several more steps and came into the living room and then all at once stopped.  
    The TV was on. Matthew was on the screen. He was tied down to a bed. Tape was over his mouth. A blindfold was over his eyes. And around his neck, just like Reginald Moore, was an explosive collar.

 
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 12

    T HE SOUND THAT emerged from Elizabeth’s mouth was neither a scream nor a yell nor even a shout. It was a primitive noise, going all the way back to the beginning of time, the type of sound a caveman would have been familiar with. It started deep down in