The Doll (48 page)

He wasn’t talking about Kate Breeden. They both knew that Munroe could only bear so much pain and loss before coming completely undone. She needed time away, time to heal, and she could only do that by returning to who she was: the lone operative, shut down and shut off.

Munroe set the glass on an end table, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. She truly loved him; always would. She smiled and fought back the sadness, glad in a way that she was spared from having to say good-bye, from uttering the words she
never wanted to speak—although, in truth, there would never really be a good-bye, because if this was where home was, then like a homing pigeon she’d return, and Bradford had to know it, just as he also knew her reasons for leaving.

It wouldn’t happen tonight, or tomorrow, she still had things to do here. Needed to visit Alexis; should probably make an effort to call on most of her family and would, when she was ready. What she wanted most, needed most, was to see Logan, to look into his eyes and beg forgiveness for all he’d suffered because of her, and because of this she had time—
they
had time—before the inevitable.

RICHARDSON, TEXAS

The midnight air was still, the coolness of night made deeper by the damp of recent rain. The condo, set toward the back of the complex and away from street traffic and the rush of tires against wet pavement, sat in an area that had, over the past three hours, turned eerily quiet.

In a darkened nook, invisible in the night, Munroe watched and waited. Over the hours and with the deepening evening, neighbors had returned home, and some, as evidenced by the limited lighting, had already gone to bed.

A hunter in a blind, she’d marked time by cars and open doors, by curtains drawn and lights on and off, shadows that reached the streets, and sometimes by people, unaware of what was so easily seen from the other side of the glass.

And still, she waited.

Munroe had asked Bradford for a weapon, searched through the plastic locker he’d offered, and taken what she wanted. Had borrowed his truck with no promise of when she’d return and hadn’t told him where she was going.

He didn’t ask, but he knew—had to know.

The ground was cold and Munroe shifted, one uncomfortable position into another. She had no doubt that Breeden would eventually return to this apartment, a little hideaway Munroe had discovered years ago and about which she’d kept silent—although when Breeden would return, and how often, was a mystery.

During Breeden’s prison tenure, while her house went into foreclosure and her car was repossessed, the mortgage on the condo
continued to be paid and the utilities kept on. Something waited here, something Breeden needed or wanted; something called her back. If nothing else, this one-bedroom unit was the only sanctuary Breeden had—a roof over her head, a place out of the cold—a temporary home while she regrouped and moved on to whatever she planned next.

The midnight quiet drew long and the scent of woodsmoke spoke to the erratic Texas weather that could still bring a solid freeze in early spring. The occasional set of headlights turned down the lane, disappearing into garages or under carports, but the condo remained as it had been: dark and unoccupied; beckoning.

It was a delightful temptation to enter ahead, to lie in wait in the dark of the rooms, away from the elements and the chance of prying eyes, but she had no idea what was on the other side, what preparations Breeden may have made to give notice of intrusion, and was cautious of warning her off.

More time passed, damp and quiet, the dangerous kind of quiet with thoughts and memories and the voices running dialogue inside her head, voices that had still not been silenced even after the Doll Maker’s death; had not allowed her a return to the peace she’d had before the madness began.

It was folly to think that by finishing tonight what should have been finished so many nights ago she’d find quiet once again, but the thought was there, and it phased into others far darker, far needier. Those in turn were replaced by images of a dungeon and children, of Logan and Neeva, of Jack and Sam, of Noah, and her own words of caution to Neeva:
Revenge is best left to fantasy
.

There was always a price to pay.

Another set of lights pulled into the lane and continued into the slot reserved for Breeden’s unit. Half expecting a decoy in Breeden’s place, Munroe was instead taken by the gaunt frame that clipped a rapid pace in her direction. Even in the dark, it was apparent that Breeden had drastically aged since Munroe had last seen her. Gone was the poise, the champagne bubbles, and twenty-five pounds of the good life, replaced by a haggard severity.

With measured patience and a predator’s instinct, Munroe waited for Breeden to pass, waited for her to fish keys out of her purse, watched as she ran a finger along the upper doorjamb and fiddled with what Munroe could only assume was a wire.

Munroe stood.

Death and the loss of these past weeks called for closure.

The righteous will rejoice when he sees the vengeance
.

Inside her chest the war drum tapped.

He will wash his feet in the blood of the wicked
.

Moved forward, black against the night, shadow to the stairwell lights, focused entirely on Breeden’s posture, Breeden’s breathing, Breeden’s spine. And then, very nearly at Breeden’s side, Munroe put the muzzle of the gun to Breeden’s head and said, “Hello again, Kate.”

A quarter of a mile of gravel separated the blacktop county road from Bradford’s front door; a quarter of a mile between foyer and mailbox. For the most part, the distance was meaningless. He wasn’t home often enough to worry about collecting the mail—Felecia did that for him, and anything urgent was sent to Capstone’s office.

But today he was home, and so Bradford swung the truck off the blacktop, along the shoulder, to collect what lay within the box and spare Felecia the trip. Paper gripped between his fingers, he tossed the stack onto the passenger’s seat, and not until he was around the back of the house, parked in the garage and leaning over to collect the meager bounty of inserts and magazines, flyers and envelopes, did he catch sight of the handwriting that stopped his breath cold.

One leg already outside the truck, he reversed, sat back down, and stared at the envelope: plain, white, and from both the shape and the stamp clearly not from the U.S. There was no return address, but his own name and address were written in an unmistakable print that quickened his pulse and set his fingers shaking.

Bradford tore into the side of the envelope with his teeth—enough to get a finger into the crease and slit the edge open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. A newspaper clipping in a foreign language, printed in a script he didn’t understand—most probably
Cyrillic, although for which country, he wasn’t sure—and he didn’t care, didn’t need to know. Because although the words were meaningless, the accompanying photograph, in all its newspaper-quality graininess, told him everything.

Charred and gutted, with only enough of the hull left intact to keep from tipping below the waterline, a very large yacht listed off some Mediterranean-looking coastline.

Bradford stared at the clipping a long while, smile widening the longer he sat, happy in a way that defied words, until finally he laughed out loud.

Without the help of many who love me, this story would never have seen the light of day—and certainly not in the polished format it is in now, so to my children, who begrudgingly allow me to work, and to my family and friends, who don’t take it personally when I drop off the map for months at a time, thank you for still being there when I surface for air.

To all of my wonderful teammates within Crown Publishers, thank you for your tireless efforts on my behalf. A particular shout-out to Zack Wagman, my editor, who forced me to think far harder than I wanted to, and my publicist, Sarah Breivogel, who I’m convinced knows the secrets of magic.

To the individual who helped me get the Croatian and Hungarian details right (at least I hope I got them right) and who didn’t want to be named, you have my appreciation.

And last, my agent, Anne Hawkins, to whom I owe my entire career and at least half of my sanity: you have become my champion, confidante, therapist, surrogate family, and wonderful friend. I wish every author could be as fortunate as I have been to have you in my life. Thank you.