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"I'm right behind you," Christopher said. "I'll call the desk and tell them what's up. But let's get going."

Chapter Thirty-four

Monday, exact time and place unknown

Jenna woke up, shivering. her hands and legs were still bound together. Dried tears had formed a gluelike crust on her eyes. She rubbed her face against the fabric on which she lay. She tried to lift her head and breathed in. Good. The sickly sweet smell that had left her dizzy, then asleep in the darkness, had abated. The air was damp and heavy, but it did not have that strange odor. To her left the crack of light had narrowed to the thinnest of slits. Where was she?

She called over to Nick. "Can you hear me?"

There was no response, so she tried again, saying his name in a louder voice, though still a whisper.

But again, nothing. She worried that he was still overcome by the fumes of what had been tossed into the dark space. She rolled over on her right side. As she did so, the mattress beneath her buckled on its rusted frame. For the first time, she realized she was on a bed of some kind. It had springs and batting. She wriggled her torso to get on her side so she could see Nick. He'd almost been free when she passed out. He'll get us out of there. He was cutting the tape that bound him.

"Wake up," she said, urgency rising. "Nick, I need you" She could feel the ligature around her wrists. Was it her imagination? It seemed looser than it had been before the curtain of utter blackness fell. Before the sound of the crashing, breaking glass. The smell. It was all in her memory as she twisted her body. In shifting her position, she'd been able to reduce the tension of the binding. It no longer cut into her flesh. Instead she felt she could move her wrists. They hurt. The raw edges of her sliced skin stung. She did not cry. Instead, she could feel something else rise within her. Resolve. Hope. Courage.

I'm going to get out of here, she thought. Nick and I are going home. Please wake up.

Monday, 4:05 RM., Seattle

Olga Morris-Cerrino knew she wasn't on the case anymore. She knew that she'd long since exchanged her love for the law for the joy she'd found tilling the soil and making fruit leathers from her own apricots and her husband's prized golden raspberries. But when she heard that Bonnie Jeffries had been murdered, Jenna Kenyon was missing, and Dylan Walker had been released from prison, she went into Seattle and sought out the one person she thought might have some answers.

"Hi Tina," she said, as she stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling painting, an abstract of a waterfall, at the Winter Gallery, where the former prison-groupie-turned-society-babe volunteered two days a week.

"Do I know you?" Tina looked blankly right into Olga's penetrating eyes. She was scanning for recognition. A party perhaps? Probably not, the jewelry's from Macy 's. A patron? No, the shoes are cheap. She tilted her head and looked suitably confused.

Tina looked as good as though only a few years had passed, not so many more. Olga put on a reasonably warm smile. It wasn't easy, but it was necessary. They were in a public place. "We met years ago," she said, "through a mutual friend, Dylan Walker. I'm Olga Cerrino. I used to be Detective Olga Morris."

Tina's flinty eyes flitted nervously around the gallery. Patrons stood in front of enormous contemporary paintings that mimicked the splattered work of Jackson Pollock. They stared as if there was meaning in the chaos of the artist's wanton spray.

Olga said, "Is there a place we can talk? Or should we just do it here?"

"Oh no," Tina said quickly. "Let's go back to the docent's office"

"Then you do remember me?"

"Yes," Tina said, leading her past the sculpture gallery and into a long white-walled corridor. Her Pradas smacked hard on the marble.

Olga didn't say anything as Tina took a brass key and turned the lock on an office door. Some African tribal figures stared from one corner. Supplies nearby indicated that they were in some state of repair. One of them was a large woman with a protruding belly. She was obviously some kind of fertility goddess.

"I call her Trader Vicki," Tina said, noticing how transfixed Olga had been by the statue, "I think she belongs in a bar and not a museum" She smiled nervously.

Olga didn't see the need for small talk. "Look, I know about you and Bonnie and Dylan."

Tina turned away from the carved ebony goddess and faced her interrogator. "You're going to ruin my life, aren't you?"

Olga remained expressionless. "I don't know what you're talking about"

"I see the way you look at me, judge me, envy me"

"Trust me, I don't envy you."

Tina looked away. "Whatever."

"Listen, Tina, I just want to know what you really know. Not what you think you can get away with withholding to keep your own involvement minimized."

"Involvement with what?"

"You know," Olga said, though, of course she really didn't. God, this feels good, she thought. It had been so long since she'd had the opportunity to face off with someone who had something more precious than gold-pieces to a puzzle.

"Did you know Bonnie was dead? Murdered?"

Tina looked frightened. "Yes. It was on TV. But if you think I had anything to do with Bonnie's murder, you're crazy."

"I didn't say that. But I do think you know more about what Bonnie was actually up to"

Tina was less nervous now. "You do? Well, then, good for you "

"My friend at the Times would love to know."

"Are you blackmailing me? I have the best law firm in town on my side."

The haughtiness might work ifyou didn't know this lady backstory, Olga thought. She decided to press Tina, hard.

"Are you so incredibly self-centered that you don't care about a dead woman?"

"What do you want to know? Am I supposed to stand here and spill my guts? Is that how you want it?"

"Be truthful." Olga paused for emphasis. "About Dylan, Bonnie, and Angel's Nest"

"I knew this day would come," Tina said, tears welling up in her eyes, "When Bonnie came here a month ago ... "

Tina Esposito almost didn't recognize Bonnie Jeffries when she accosted her outside of the gallery, earlier that spring. So many years had passed and they hadn't been kind to Bonnie. She was older, and dumpier. Seeing Bonnie was like revisiting a bad dream, one she'd finally been able to suppress.

"You've done well for yourself. I hope you've been happy," Bonnie said. Her voice was cheerful and overcharged, like the phony inflections of teenage girls who act as if they are so so so happy to see each other.

Tina barely put on a smile. "Thank you. I can't complain. You look well, too" She lied. "I'm late for an appointment," she lied once more.

"This won't take long," Bonnie said, her own smile now waning. If she had expected there was a happy reunion of old friends, she'd been mistaken. She stood in front of Tina, almost blocking her.

"Obviously," Tina said, "we can't talk here." She directed her back to the docent's office. "Five minutes. But then I really have to go-a benefit tonight."

"I knew you were up there," Bonnie said, seemingly impressed. "I've seen your picture in Seattle magazine."

Tina nodded, but she didn't smile. She didn't want to give Bonnie Jeffries any more insight into her life. The magazine article had been a risk, and until just then, no one from her past had come after her. The article was as close as she wanted Bonnie to get.

"I'm a custodian for South Seattle schools," Bonnie said. "After the trial, no one wanted to hire me. Thought I was a whistle-blower. But all I was doing was coming forward to protect us"