In This Together. Kara Lennox

turned his cell phone off the minute he’d nabbed Elena so he couldn’t be located by the phone’s ping. He wasn’t sure how fast Daniel Logan could mobilize whatever people and resources he had, but probably pretty damn fast. The guy was powerful. Still, it was possible Elena hadn’t even been missed yet. If she had a lot of autonomy on the job, her absence might not be unusual.

      Travis got in his truck and drove. He’d been driving for twenty minutes before he realized he should have gotten Daniel’s private number from Elena. The only number Travis had was for Project Justice. Well, that would have to do.

      Once he was miles away from the repo’d house, in some nameless, nondescript neighborhood, he pulled over, got out his cell, turned it on, took a deep breath and dialed.

      “Project Justice, how may I direct your call today?” The woman who answered had a tone of voice that didn’t match the polite words. She sounded like an older lady—probably that dragon who’d manned the front desk the time he’d dropped in at their offices, hoping to convince someone to listen to him.

      Celeste, that was her name. “Good afternoon, Celeste. My name is Travis Riggs.” There was no point in trying to hide his identity. “Please listen carefully, as I’ll only say this once. I’ve kidnapped Daniel Logan’s assistant, Elena.”

      “You did what?” Celeste shrieked.

      God, the woman could shatter eardrums. “Please, don’t talk. Just listen. She’s safe and unhurt—for now. My demands are simple. Project Justice must take on the case of Eric Riggs, my brother, who was unjustly convicted of his wife’s murder. Have Daniel Logan personally call this number and leave a message, indicating that he agrees. Have him provide me with this detail—What piece of the victim’s jewelry went missing?—to convince me he really did investigate the case. When he does that, I will return Elena unharmed and turn myself in to the authorities. Do you understand?”

      “Now, you listen here, young man. Daniel Logan doesn’t negotiate with—”

      “Do you understand?”

      There was a long pause before Celeste answered. “Perfectly.”

      “I’ll check my messages in twenty-four hours.” He disconnected and turned off his phone. Despite the cool fall weather, he was sweating. He opened the window and cursed. Making that call had sickened him. But he had to keep thinking about Eric, sitting in that six-by-eight jail cell. And little MacKenzie, who was so traumatized by her mother’s death that she had withdrawn from the world. Now her father was gone, too.

      Travis could have accepted temporary custody of MacKenzie. His brother had tried to get him to do just that; MacKenzie seemed fond of her uncle Trav, and there weren’t any other relatives except Tammy’s aged grandmother, who was in a home. But at the time decisions were being made, Travis had thought MacKenzie would be better off with foster parents who could spend time with her and help her adjust. A single construction worker who worked seven days a week—and who intended to spend any spare time he had helping Eric prove his innocence—wasn’t a fit guardian for a three-year-old.

      Even if Travis had been willing to take MacKenzie, Social Services probably would have nixed the idea. Ex-cons were hardly considered prime parent material.

      Now he wished he’d at least tried to take responsibility for his niece. Her foster parents were moneygrubbing lowlifes who only wanted to adopt MacKenzie so they could get hold of her future assets. Eric had been financially comfortable when Tammy was murdered, but Tammy came from serious money. When that aged grandmother died, her wealth would pass directly to MacKenzie. Without a trust fund in place, her “parents” would get control of the money.

      Travis’s own brief experience as a foster kid had been positive, and he’d based his decision on that. He hadn’t counted on the foster parents from hell.

      Travis got his truck moving again. He needed to get back to Elena. It just now occurred to him that if something happened to Travis—say, a fatal car accident—no one would know where to find his hostage. It could be months before anyone went through that house. She could starve to death.

      He didn’t take another full breath until he pulled onto Marigold Circle and everything looked quiet and peaceful. No cop cars or news crews lurked in the cul-de-sac. Even as he pulled around to the back of the house, he half expected cops to spring out of hiding, guns drawn, as he exited his vehicle. But nothing happened.

      He let himself in the back door. Hi, honey, I’m home.

      * * *

      ELENA TOOK STOCK of her situation once again, as it had evolved. It could be a lot worse, she conceded. She had no serious injuries; she hadn’t been molested. And as far as prison cells went, this one wasn’t bad. The sink provided running water, the toilet worked and she could even take a whirlpool bath if she wanted to.

      But there was no way out. The door wouldn’t budge; she’d thrown all of her weight against it several times and nothing had happened. She couldn’t reach the skylights, and even if she could, she doubted they would break easily. She’d found a can of hairspray and had attempted to throw it with enough force to break the glass, but those windows were designed to withstand hail. Even if she broke one, what then? She couldn’t magically fly up to it and escape.

      She wondered what Daniel would do when he found out she’d been abducted. He was loyal to his own people; she couldn’t believe he would allow her to be killed just to make a point that he didn’t negotiate with criminals. And Travis wasn’t asking for the world; he only wanted someone to take on his brother’s case. But currently Daniel was dealing with something more urgent than his personal assistant’s life. What if the new Logan power plant was in imminent danger of a meltdown? That was the sort of global disaster that would definitely take precedence over one person’s welfare.

      If Daniel didn’t respond to Travis, would Travis understand why?

      She heard a door open and close and immediately got to her feet and went to the door. “Help! Help me, please! I’m trapped in the bathroom!” It was probably Travis, returning from wherever he’d gone. But just in case it wasn’t...“Help!” she shouted again, slamming her palms against the door. Her right hand still hurt where she’d hit Travis’s shoulder.

      “I’m back.” It was Travis’s voice. She slumped with disappointment even as her heart lifted slightly. It was really odd, but despite everything, she still felt sympathetic to Travis’s cause—more than when she’d first listened to his story. Was this what they called Stockholm Syndrome, when a hostage started to feel affection for her captor? Surely it wouldn’t happen this quickly.

      “Hey,” she yelled. “Are you going to feed me? Because I skipped lunch. While I was supposed to be eating lunch, I was trying to get you some time with Daniel.”

      “And I appreciate that. Really, I do,” he said. “I’ll get you something to eat. Sorry, I hadn’t even thought about food. I guess when your stomach is tied up in knots you don’t notice if you’re hungry or not.”

      “Well, I do. And I’m hungry.”

      “I’ll see what the people who lived here left behind in the way of food.”

      Great. It sounded like she was in for a tasty meal of stale saltines, and maybe a can of cold soup if she was lucky. Travis didn’t seem the type who could whip up a four-star meal out of nothing.

      She waited a long time. She stood, she sat, she recited poetry to herself, verses memorized years ago in school. “Listen, my children, and you shall hear...” When she ran out of poems, she paced the bathroom, counting the steps from one end to the other and back, and then multiplying by each circuit she made. How long did it take to check the pantry? Maybe he’d gone out for fast food.

      She was almost to five thousand steps when an incredible smell reached her nostrils. What was that? Oregano? Garlic?

      Travis tapped on her door. “I brought some food.”

      “Are you waiting for me to