Jane went outside to the sidewalk and stood at about the same spot her mother had been standing when the photo was taken. There was no van there now, only an empty curb. She zoomed in on the image and the license number filled the screen. A Massachusetts plate. Why did you take this photo, Mom? Is this why you’ve vanished?
“Oh my god,” said Agnes, staring across the street. “It’s him.”
The mysterious Matthew Green had just stepped out of his house. He walked straight toward them, moving like a man primed for battle, his stride deliberate, his shoulders squared. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes and Jane could not read his expression, but she had no trouble spotting the telltale outline of the concealed weapon under his shirt. As he approached, Jane resisted the impulse to reach for her own gun. This was broad daylight, after all, and standing right beside her was a witness, even if it was only Agnes Kaminsky.
“Detective Jane Rizzoli?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I gather you’re searching for your mother.”
“Yes, I am. Do you know where she is, Mr. Green?”
“I’m not entirely certain.” He pulled off his sunglasses and stared straight at her, his face as unreadable as a cyborg’s. “But I think I can help you find her.”
Whenever I used to think of my death, I assumed it would be many years from now. I imagined myself lying at home in my own bed, surrounded by my loving family. Or maybe in a hospital room, tended by nurses. Or best of all, I would go suddenly and painlessly, killed by a stroke while lying on a warm beach with a mai tai in my hand. Never in my imagination did duct tape ever come into the picture.
Yet this is how it’s going to end, with my hands and feet bound, strangled in the back of this van. Or maybe he’ll drag me out to some remote location and put a bullet in my head. That’s how professionals do it, and I believe that’s who’s now in the driver’s seat, delivering me to my grave. A professional.
How did I get this so wrong? While I was focused on Tricia and the Leopolds and the mysterious Greens, something entirely different was going on right under my nose, something that drew this van back again and again to our neighborhood. It wasn’t there to spy on Larry Leopold; it was there for another reason, which I still haven’t figured out. Not that it makes a difference, not now.
I keep trying to twist myself free but duct tape is unyielding, the strongest material in the universe. Exhausted, I give in to despair. This is what I get for poking my nose into other people’s business. I got lucky with the Leopolds when I didn’t get shot. It made me cocky, and now I’m going to pay for it.
The van swerves around a corner and the momentum sends me rolling sideways, slamming my head against the side. Pain shoots down my neck, as excruciating as a jolt of electricity. It leaves me whimpering, weak and defeated. How can I fight back when I can’t even move my arms?
The van rolls to a stop.
Through the pounding of my heart, I hear the driver’s door open and slam shut. The thud reverberates, which tells me we are not in the outdoors but enclosed in a building. Maybe a warehouse? The driver doesn’t open the rear door; he simply walks away, his footsteps echoing on concrete, and leaves me tied up in the vehicle. Faintly I hear him talking to someone, but there’s no other voice. He must be on the phone and he sounds agitated, upset. Are they talking about what to do with me?
His voice fades away and there’s silence. For the moment it seems I’ve been forgotten.
Now that I’m not being tossed side to side in traffic, I can finally sit up, but middle age and stiff joints make it a struggle just to right myself. Sitting up is about all I can manage. I can’t scream, I can’t free my hands or feet, and I’m trapped in a locked metal box.
Eventually someone will notice I’ve gone missing, but how long will it take? Will Vince wonder why I’m not answering the phone and will he call Jane? Will Agnes pop by to thank me for the leftovers? I run through all the possible scenarios that end with me staying alive, but I keep crashing into the insurmountable barrier that even if they did go looking for me, no one knows where I am.
Oh, Angie, you really are dead.
Panic makes me twist again at the duct tape. Sobbing and sweating, I twist so hard, so desperately, that my fingers go numb. I’ve lost track of the time, but it feels like hours. Maybe he’s not coming back. Maybe this is how it ends, with me mummified in an abandoned van.
And I never even ate breakfast.
I slump back in exhaustion. Janie, I know you expect more of me but I can’t do this. I can’t save myself.