Silent Rescue. Melinda Di Lorenzo

some heat. But it was an unforgiving light instead.

      For a second, the chill seemed ominous, and a shiver made Maryse wrap her arms around her own body, rubbing her palms against the comforting fuzz of her faux-angora sweater. Then she pushed off her worry and reminded herself that today was going to be a fun day.

      “Nothing a jacket won’t fix. Right, sweet pea?” she said as she turned back toward the bed. But the down comforter didn’t move. Not an inch. “Camille?”

      She stepped forward and put out a hand, wondering if her daughter was sick. But when she reached for Camille’s shoulder, she found a pillow instead.

      Panic didn’t set in right away—the little girl was fond of pranks. And hide-and-seek.

      “Very funny!” Maryse said, then gestured, too, in case her daughter was hiding somewhere she could see.

      She moved around the room, peeking into the usual hiding spots. The closet. The book cubby. Under the bed, then in the tiny bathroom that adjoined the room. Empty.

      She stood in the bedroom’s doorway, put her hands on her hips and turned slowly, searching for her too-clever girl. Stuffed animals and knickknacks galore dominated the shelves.

      “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she called, her hands moving to make the words come to life.

      As Maryse turned to move her search to the rest of the house, her sock-covered foot slipped on something on the floor, and she slid across the carpet, landing on one knee. She bit back a curse—Camille always seemed to know when she let one drop—and reached out to snap up the offending object.

      What the— A key card?

      She frowned down at the slim piece of plastic.

      Maison Blanc.

      She flipped it over and found an address in Laval. The city was an hour and a half south of the tiny town, LaHache, where they lived.

      “Where’d you get this one, Cami?” she murmured as she pushed herself to her feet, then set the card beside the rest of the odd little trinkets on the nearest shelf.

      Collecting things was a Camille habit. Just one of the hobbies that made the kid interesting.

      Maryse smiled to herself, then stepped out to scan the hallway. “Okay, kiddo. Give me a hint.”

      But the house stayed silent, and as she covered the scant eight hundred square feet of space, her smile began to slip.

      All closets. Nope, nope and nope twice more.

      Every cupboard large enough to hold a fifty-pound child. Nothing.

      Concern crept in quickly.

      “Camille!” Maryse called her daughter’s name loudly. Useless, she knew. But she still did it again. “Cami!”

      She looked in the laundry basket and up the sooty chimney. With her heart in her throat and thoughts of the subzero temperature outside on her mind, she eased open the only entrance to the house—a door off the living room. But all she found was the same day-old dusting of snow that had coated the patio yesterday. Impossible for Camille to have gone over it without a trace. Relief made her sag temporarily.

      But where is she?

      Maryse took a breath and made her way back to the bedroom, where she scanned for some hint of something she might’ve missed. Her eyes found the window, then stayed there. Her brain grabbed a thought and hung on to it.

      That little blast of cold air...

      Woodenly, she stepped closer. She gripped the blinds’ rod and turned. And yes. There it was. Evidence. The childproof lock had been forced across the ridge at the bottom of the window, leaving a nasty groove through the metal. And when Maryse pushed the blinds aside, she could see the sliver of an opening.

      Oh, God. Please, no.

      Her heart thumped hard against her rib cage as she spun back to the pile of pink bedding. Then she saw it sticking out from under one of the frilly pillows: a slip of familiar notepaper dotted with fluttering butterflies.

      Maryse snatched it up, her hand shaking so badly she almost couldn’t read the words that were written there in large, deliberate block letters. She inhaled and forced herself to go still.

      Two sentences. Two. And they were enough to take her world, stop it from spinning, then flip it in the other direction.

      I TOOK WHAT YOUR BROTHER OWED ME. CONSIDER HIS FATE A WARNING - NO POLICE.

      She breathed in. She breathed out.

      She fought the threatening blackness and made herself look at Camille’s familiar things. The favorite stuffed bunny, one loose ear and one eye gone. The ribbon she used as a bookmark tucked into the pages of her latest read. The radio she insisted on having even though she couldn’t listen to it.

      And then her eyes landed on the single item in the room that she was certain she hadn’t seen before.

      The key card for Maison Blanc. A clue. But what did it mean she should do?

      The police!

      The urge to call them was instinctual. Logical, even. Or it would be under normal circumstances.

      Normal.

      The word was nearly laughable. There was nothing normal about this. Still. Her feet itched to move. To take her to her cell phone so she could make the “normal” choice. But there was more to consider than simply placing her daughter’s fate in the hands of the police.

      For one, there was the not-so-small issue of guardianship. No matter how Maryse sliced it, there was nothing legal about her parentage. Or even her identity. Sure, she had ID that had passed even strict scrutiny over the years. But this was different. This was the police, picking apart all aspects of her life. If they figured out that she was a fraud, it might influence how the case was viewed. Would they throw her in jail? Keep her from the investigation?

      Of course, that was actually a small matter compared to the note and its warning. Because Cami’s safety was definitely worth more than protecting her own identity, and there was no getting around what fate her brother had met. He’d died in the fire supposedly set by his own hand.

      Maryse swallowed. The idea that something similar might happen to her daughter was unbearable. More than unbearable. Unthinkable.

      But she was sure that every kidnapper made the same warning about contacting the authorities. That was what they always showed in the movies, anyway. So did that mean she should just do it anyway? Was calling them worth the risk in spite of the warning? They’d already snuffed out Jean-Paul’s life. Would they hesitate on making this new threat a reality, too?

      And what about ransom?

      Her rapidly churning thoughts paused for a moment. There was no mention of money. Was it coming later?

      No. Because they already took what they wanted. Cami herself.

      The thought made her want to go for the phone all over again. Because if they weren’t after anything in exchange, what did she have to negotiate with? The police were surely better equipped to deal with this than she was.

      Her head spun even more.

      If Cami died and it was because she made the wrong call...

      If Cami died and it was because she didn’t make the call...

      And besides all of that...would the cops even believe her story?

      Probably not.

      Not quick enough, anyway. It was too complicated. Too far-fetched. And the nearest police station was an hour away. In the amount of time it would take them to make their way to her, she could get halfway to Laval herself. If she hurried, she could even be there before breakfast.

      Maryse exhaled, then squeezed the Maison Blanc card once more. A phone call to the hotel would be pointless. It had taken him—whoever he was—six years