Page 40 of Death

I’ll arrange a manicure for her.

“Where am I?”

Didn’t I tell her?

“You’re in Peru. South America.”

Her blue eyes dart to my face, shock filling them.

I wait, giving her a few minutes while one emotion after another plays out on her face. She lowers her head, and a few seconds later, a silent tear drops onto her hand. She quickly covers it with her other hand to hide it.

“Ciara.” I lean a little closer to her, but when she tenses even more, I pause, fighting the strong urge to comfort her.

She sucks in a quivering breath, and keeping her head bowed, she whispers, “Will I ever go home again?”

“Of course. Once you’ve healed and you’re better, we can travel to Ireland.”

Her head snaps up, and hope fills her eyes.

Seeing as we’re finally talking, I ask, “Do you have family in Ireland?”

Instantly, the hope vanishes, then she shakes her head. “No family. My father is dead.”

She wraps her arms around her middle in a defensive move, which tells me she’s not being completely honest.

Knowing I’m pushing my luck, I ask, “Who held you captive?”

Her chin quivers, and her shoulders curve forward as if she’s trying to make herself a smaller target. “Nolan.”

“A man?” I check to make sure.

She nods.

Now, I know not to waste time looking for a woman.

But my men didn’t find a man. The house by the trees was empty when they searched it. They found a chain bolted to a wall, but that’s all. The fucker must’ve made a run for it right after Ciara escaped.

My tone remains gentle as I continue with the questions. “Do you know for how long you were held captive?”

“I think nine months.”

I already know the answer, but still, I ask, “Was he sick with the flu? Is that how you managed to get away from him?”

When she nods, I close my eyes for a moment.

I had the fucker in my sights.

Pulling out my phone, I type a message for Pedro.

Santiago: The fucker who held Ciara captive is blonde/ginger. Freckles all over his face. Estimated 5.9ft. Probably mid-thirties. He drove a blue Ford Fiesta.

“Can you tell me more about him? His last name?” I ask

She turns her head slightly to me, then whispers, “Why?”

I contemplate lying to soften the blow, but decide against it and reply honestly, “So I can kill him to make sure you never cross paths with him again.”

Silence follows my words for a long while before she looks at me. I meet her gaze, and it feels like she’s trying to figure out if she can trust me with the information.