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Victor was a fiend.

A stranger. Terrifying. Smiling. He’d given her cookies. A peanut butter sandwich. A big room. A giant bed .
. .

He’d smiled at her, started taking pictures . . . asked her to take all her clothes off. When she’d said no, he’d reached for her, torn her shirt. . .

She’d bitten him. Hard as she could. There’d been blood. Then she’d kicked him where Gus told her it hurt a guy the most.

He’d thrown her in a dark room filled with bottles. Left her forever. Hungry. She’d been so hungry. Then he’d come back for her.

She’d tried to kick him again. No use.

He’d beaten her, cut her lip, stripped off her clothes
—
and she’d cried, and cried, and
—

April touched her mouth, felt the blood, the hot thickness of her lip today as if she were back in that room. As if Victor stood looking down at her . . . panting. Glaring. Pulling off her clothes.
The flash and click of the camera.
His sick and terrible pictures. Then he’d tossed her back in the basement—she’d skinned her knee, but could only feel it, not see it, because he’d unscrewed the lightbulb, so she’d be in the dark.

Two days later Phylly came and took her away. And the forgetting game began.

When she didn’t answer, Tommy sounding impatient, said, “He was what? What were you going to say, April?”

She rubbed at her tight throat, all the words bunched up in there like living things in a sealed coffin. She coughed, brushed her hair back—got a grip. “Victor Allan was an old boyfriend of Phylly’s. Phylly called him the Titanic of her mistakes. He was from Seattle.”

Beside her Joe muttered a curse, shook his head.

She knew what she’d said sounded ugly, but it was the truth, and this wasn’t the time for lies or pretending—no matter how well they’d worked in the past.

Pretend he doesn’t exist. . .

“Yeah, well now he’s a very dead old boyfriend,” Tommy said.

“What?” She was still trying to put herself in conversation central, trying to connect fully. A glance at Joe’s questioning eyes told her she wasn’t doing so well, and the ache in her stomach confirmed it. She flattened a hand over its tension, the threat of nausea. Phylly was right, she should never have said his name. He was back. Victor Allan was back. She looked away from Joe, to Tommy. “What did you say?”

“I’m saying, somebody beat the crap out of him, then put a few bullets in him for good measure.” Tommy picked up the coffee mug in front of him, downed it, and stood. “Phylly figures it was this Castor character, and that now he’s after her.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” April looked up at him, not trusting her legs enough to stand. Tommy couldn’t know, but there was no reason for anyone associated with Victor to come after Phylly, not after all this time. If anything it was dangerous and would stir up things best left unstirred.

“Phylly ever make sense?”

April didn’t reply. “Did she say where she was going, Tommy? Give you any names?”

“No. Just gave me some bull about how she was going where she couldn’t be found for a while. That when she figured things out, she’d be back. Said it was safer if you didn’t know.” He nodded at the business card in April’s hand. “If I were you, I’d start there. And while you look for Phylly, I’ll be looking for Castor.” He stopped again and sealed his lips into a straight seam. “But right now, I’m going to take care of my sister. Then it’s back here to get someone to cover my tables for a few days.” He turned away, took a few steps, and turned back. “You find out anything, I want to hear it. We straight on that?”

April nodded.

When he was gone, Joe sat down again in the seat opposite her. “Look at me,” he said.

“What?” she said, deeply mired in the muddy thoughts of the past and still trying to climb out. Weak and shaky, she met his speculative gaze, and took a couple of deep breaths.

“You don’t just look like you’ve
seen
a ghost, you are one—ever since you heard the name Victor. And considering I’m on this roller-coaster ride with you, maybe I should hear about him.”

The fear kicked in. She couldn’t say his name.
She wanted to go back to being nine years old, pretending Victor didn’t exist—which, if Tommy was right, he didn’t. Not anymore. Being dead made things final—and made the job of burying him even deeper a whole lot easier.
Deny, deny, deny . . .

“April, talk to me.”

“There’s no connection—”
There can’t be, not after all these years. Impossible.
“It’s been too long.”

“You’re not making sense. What’s too long?” His blue eyes settled on her with laser intensity.

Deny, deny, deny.
Her chest knotted and she could barely breathe. “Victor Allan”—the name dried her lips as it passed over them—“was the man in the house Phylly took me from.” She swallowed, kept her eyes locked to Joe’s. “But that was over twenty years ago. And with Victor Allan dead”—this time the name came easier—“it doesn’t make sense that someone is looking for her now—not about
that”

Joe went silent for a time, then said, “‘
That
’ was kidnapping a child with the intention of selling a child outside the country—and God knows what else. And given there’s no statute of limitations on kidnapping, my guess is Allan’s murder has made someone very, very nervous.” He leaned forward. “You’re sure you don’t remember this Castor guy?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“But you do remember the man who brought you to Allan’s house, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then Phyllis must remember him, too.”

April saw where his thoughts were taking him. He was thinking she was a threat to someone, particularly the man who’d brought her to Victor. “No. She never saw him. Phylly came to the house over a week after he took me there.”

“So that makes you the only one to have seen him.” His jaw flexed and firmed. “Tell me everything you can remember.”

She didn’t want to, didn’t want to remember. She forced herself. “When he took me to the house that night—I saw Victor give him a briefcase—money, I presume now, and the second he had it he headed for the door, and—”

“Go on.”

I’d forgotten. How could I forget?
“He looked back at me, I remember. He’d tied me to a chair . . . He said—”

“What?” he urged, when she didn’t finish.

She couldn’t finish because the memory was resurfacing from the deep place. Buried there along with Victor Allan’s name and those ugly days in his basement. Phylly called it the dung heap of memories; to April it was more of a black hole. But she’d never forget the man’s hard, tight face; it was burned into her. She’d know him instantly. His face was fixed, flat—like plastic—except for the one moment before he walked out the door, when he’d looked at her— “He said, ‘Sorry, April girl,’” she blurted, the words rushing out of her on a heavy breath. “Yes, that’s what he said, ‘Sorry,
April girl
.’ I remember being surprised he knew my name.”
And the way his faced changed when he said it.
“Then he left. I never saw him again.”

Joe let out a disgusted breath. “Sweet guy. A briefcase full of cash and five cents worth of conscience.”

“Either way, Phylly never saw him. So she’s no threat to him.”

Joe went very still. “No, but you are. Which means whoever’s after her is trying to find you.”

April gaped at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Makes perfect sense to me.”

It made a cockeyed kind of sense, but not enough for April to swallow his logic whole. “But why? Why after all this time would the guy be worrying about me? He doesn’t know who I am, what I am, or where I am. Nor I him. Why would he take the risk of stirring things up?”

“Maybe somebody did the stirring for him.”

Click.
Her heart staggered in her chest. “Someone who knew about Phylly stealing me from Victor.” She swallowed. “This Henry Castor person.”

He nodded. “The guy was in business with Victor Allan, cut from the same cloth. Which means he’s probably figured out a way to turn Victor’s loss—you—into a profit for him.
If
he can find you.”

“And he thinks the person most likely to help him do that is—”

“Phyllis Worth. She’s a means to an end, April. Not the main target.”

Like Rusty. Rusty was a means to an end, too. Oh, God.
When she thought of Phylly in danger—again—because of her, panic kicked in. She jumped to her feet, almost knocking the table over in her haste to . . . do something. Anything.

Joe stood beside her. “Easy,” he said.

She picked up the business card Tommy had given her, clutching it as if it were a connecting cord between her and Phylly. Then she waved it at Joe. “We’re going to visit a telephone booth.”

Joe eyed the card then her. “That’s brilliant—as long as she etched the next clue in the glass.”

“It’s a start,” she said.

“So’s a laxative—and we all know how they finish up.”

“This isn’t funny, Joe.”

“No, it’s not, but be reasonable. That phone booth could be in the middle of nowhere.”

He was right. She was stubborn. “Phylly doesn’t do nowhere.”

“And even if it isn’t, who the hell is going to remember a woman making a phone call?”

On that point he was wrong. “A six-foot tall, blond and beautiful woman, with a fan tattooed on her ankle and five diamonds studs in each ear? A woman who doesn’t know how to walk without her stilettos?”

Joe looked annoyed. “Okay, maybe it’s a possibility, but all she did was use the damn phone. It’s not like she pitched a tent in the parking lot. She’ll be long gone.”

“You don’t know that.”

He went quiet. “What I know is that Phyllis Worth isn’t the only one in danger here, and that Castor wouldn’t waste his time looking for her if he knew where he could find you”—his eyes fixed on hers, held—“a fact that makes me very unhappy with said Mister Castor or any other asshole who has you in his sights. I won’t have you hurt, April. You got that?”

“Joe, you don’t have to—” She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, but she knew it had something to do with her taking care of herself, as she’d always done. But something in his face stopped her.

Ignoring her hesitation, he went on, “I also know Phyllis is self-protective enough to look out for herself—until she gets to wherever she’s going—which I doubt is a phone booth in a place called West Vancouver. Tommy did say something about her getting on a ferry, remember?”

She eyed him, calmer now, but irrationally irritated by his cool common sense put in a place where hers should have been. She was also a bit flustered at her reaction to his stern gaze and concern for her. The thing was she wanted Joe to look out for her—and she wanted to look out for him. She had a dim idea what that meant, but now wasn’t the time to figure it out. “You’re right,” she said, trying not to sound grudging. “We have to talk to Cornie—see that postcard.”

Joe nodded toward the bar’s entrance. “Speak of the devil.”

Chapter 18

The entrance to the bar was nothing more than a yawning gap that led to the casino room floor. April followed Joe’s nod to see Cornie walking into the bar—as if it was legal—at age fifteen.

April shot to her feet.

“Cornie, what are you doing here?” She took the girl’s arm, hustled her out of the bar, and towed her down an aisle lined on both sides with slot machines. “You know damn well you’re underage.”

Joe followed a step or two behind, but was wise enough to say nothing.

When they’d cleared the casino, and were standing off to the side of the hotel reception area, April was still gripping Cornie’s arm; she shrugged her off.

Joe glanced at both them in turn, and said, “I’ve got some calls to make, so I’m going upstairs.” Another quick glance at April, and he added. “If you need a bodyguard, to protect you from Miss Cornelia Worth”—he smiled briefly at both of them—“you know where to find me.” He headed for the elevators.

Cornie crossed her arms, her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, stayed on him until he was out of sight.

“God,” April said, “I can’t believe you did that. Tommy would have a fit.”

Not the least chastened, Cornie said, “I got tired of waiting. I saw Tommy on the way out. He said you were in there.”

“Maybe, but it didn’t mean
go in there.”

“Rusty’s dead—who cares about a stupid bar.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

The teenage logic left April in silence, and her tears led to a hug. Taking Cornie in her arms, she held her fiercely. “I know.” They clung to each other, ignored the curious looks of the gamblers and guests—the here-today-gone-tomorrow people that were the town’s stock in trade. Neither of them cared.

As one they pulled apart, Cornie snuffling and swiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands; April doing the same with her fingers pressed to her cheeks.

Cornie took a breath and reached into the back pocket of her jeans. She handed April a postcard. “If this isn’t where Mom’s gone, I’ll eat that.” She dipped her chin toward the card.

April turned the postcard over and read:
Still here. Still remembering. Love to see you again. Always, Noah.
She turned it back to the picture side. A fierce ocean, a large wave, high and poised to pound the shore. Under it, the words
Tofino, BC.
It looked very much like the print Joe had taken from Phylly’s wall. “Where did you get this?”

“When I went to Raina’s place I took the box from home and went through it. The card was in a pink envelope—like it was special.”

“It might not be anything, Cornie. You know what a pack rat Phylly is.” What she said was true enough, and she didn’t want to raise Cornie’s expectations—but it fit. All of this fit. Except they needed a last name—

April pulled out her cell, dialed.

“What are you doing?”

“Shush. I’m calling Tommy.” Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Rusty might know the deepest details of Phylly’s love life, but Tommy probably kept a detailed dating log.