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“Not exactly the Hilton.” Stella doubted anyone with a decent income would consider staying at the extended stay hotel on Music Row. But here they were, about to interview Tyra Scharf’s well-to-do parents.

“Maybe they think incognito is best?” Hagen lifted his oxfords a little higher off the sticky flooring as a young officer let them into the Scharfs’ accommodation on the third floor.

Stella glanced around at the unwelcoming space, not sure if she was making a statement or wondering aloud when she said, “They wanted to meet here…” Her phone dinged, and she checked the message. “Slade says the command post is set up at the field office.”

The officer excused herself to wait out in the hallway.

As the poster had promised, the living room was cold.

Tan leather chairs looked like they’d been stolen from the waiting room of a dentist’s office.

The scrubbed steel finish of the matching microwave, fridge, and dishwasher in the open-plan kitchen had clearly been chosen for easy cleaning rather than any sense of personal aesthetic or uniform design style.

The black plastic dining table against the wall had just enough room to seat two, provided no one was hungry enough to eat from a plate larger than a saucer.

Frances Scharf sat on the thin-cushioned sofa, a magazine in her lap and one of her legs tucked under the other.

She was in her late forties, with blond hair pulled into a large, untidy bun.

Her black pants looked new. The cuffs hung around her ankles and needed shortening.

The puffed sleeves on her white blouse had yet to suffer their first crushing in a washing machine.

She held a mug of coffee in one hand, the fingers of her free hand mimicking the slow, practiced pinch of a cigarette she no longer held.

As she sipped, flicking through her magazine, her husband paced the plastic parquet floor.

Mannie Scharf’s shirt was only half tucked in to his pants.

His dark hair stood up in wild tufts, his face pale and haggard.

Bandages wrapped both hands. Every few steps, he winced—whether from pain or memory, it wasn’t clear.

Stella didn’t need to have children to empathize with him.

If she’d truly believed her daughter had burned to death—only to find out she’d been kidnapped—an untucked shirt and messy hair would’ve been the least of her problems. And she’d have searched every basement and kicked down every door in the city by this point.

“Mr. and Mrs. Scharf?” She cleared her throat. “I’m Special Agent Stella Knox and this is my partner, Special Agent Hagen Yates. First, you should know we’re doing everything we can to find your daughter.”

“Stepdaughter.” The correction came quickly. Frances sipped her coffee again. “I’m her stepmother. Her real mother’s out in Hawaii, working on her tan.”

Stella and Hagen exchanged a glance. Hagen took a deep breath. “Our victim specialist will be arriving shortly to stay with you and help coordinate further communications.”

Mannie ignored Hagen’s attempts to smooth whatever personal undercurrent the couple was navigating and addressed his wife. “Tanya’s on her way back, Frannie. She’ll be here tonight. It’s a long flight.”

Stella fought not to laugh. Frannie and Mannie Scharf? Couldn’t make that shit up.

“Sure.” Frances rolled her eyes. “So she says. Will she be bringing her new surf coach for ‘emotional support?’”

This exchange was interesting, and if time wasn’t of the essence, Stella would have let it play out. For now, she tried to bring them back to the matter at hand. “We’re working closely with the local police on the fire investigation as well.”

Mannie ignored her. He kicked a parquet panel with his socked feet. “I should’ve known this would happen. I should’ve hired a guard for my girl.”

“Please. We’re not the royal family.” Frances dropped the magazine onto the coffee table. “I know your heart’s in the right place. But you do way too much for that girl already. Trust fund. Fancy new Mercedes. Vacation in Paris that was just supposed to be the two of us.”

Stella resisted the urge to glance at her watch.

The bitterness between them was palpable—guilt and resentment, sharpened into a domestic standoff.

Frances sounded like she was competing with a ghost for Mannie’s attention.

Stella had seen that before. Stepmothers trying to navigate the tightrope of loyalty and boundaries.

Frances focused back on Stella, her expression filled with contempt and disappointment. “It’s safer here, Agent Knox, than a flashy five-star hotel. No one’s going to look for us here if they get any ideas about doing more damage. Don’t you think we were supposed to die in that fire? ”

Yes, and from what I’ve heard, Mannie nearly did.

“They don’t yet know the cause. That’s my understanding, ma’am.

But it’s good to veer on the side of safety.

” Stella didn’t want to ruffle the stepmom’s feathers any more than they already were.

“Though, if you’d like, we can see about getting you into one of the FBI safe houses. They’re a little cozier.”

“We’re fine here.”

Hagen took a seat at the end of the sofa and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His posture made him look both empathetic and professional, as though he felt the couple’s pain and was determined to end it.

For a suffering couple, Hagen’s concern might’ve been just what they needed. Even his voice was full of deep care and broad compassion. “Mr. Scharf.”

“Mannie. And this,” he gestured to his wife, winced, and held his bandaged hands to his chest, “is Frances. First names are fine.”

“Mannie, you said you should’ve known something like this would happen. Why did you say that? Did Tyra have any enemies? Did she receive any threats?”

Puffing himself up, Mannie glared at him. “You think if she’d received a threat, I’d have sat around waiting for this to happen? I’d have had her out of here like shit through a goose.”

“Then can you think of anyone who might’ve done something like this?”

Mannie hunched his shoulders. “That ex-boyfriend of hers, maybe. What was his name?”

“You mean Ian?” Frances crossed her arms. “That’s who you’re talking about? Ian Montell. The good-looking boy who’s good with his hands.”

“Yeah, him.” Mannie spat out the words. “Like my little girl should go out with a motorcycle mechanic. Wouldn’t surprise me if that piece of shit was involved in this. Probably up to his elbows in it.”

Stella noted the name and ignored Mannie’s crassness. “You know how to get in touch with him? An address or phone number?”

Mannie almost laughed. “Are you kidding? Tyra wasn’t exactly forthcoming with that information.”

“How about where he works, maybe?”

Mannie shrugged. “It’s some auto body shop. Why should I care where some greaseball hangs his wrenches?”

“Just pay the guy, Mannie.” Frances uncrossed her arms and slid her coffee cup onto the table in front of the sofa, as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands. It left a thick wet line over the hard plastic surface. “Let’s just get her back and move on.”

Mannie walked over to the sliding doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking a small parking lot.

He rested a hand against the glass. “Is that what I’ll have to do?

Pay up?” He glared at Hagen, but his expression soon softened.

His misery was beating out his anger. “I mean, I don’t mind.

I’ll pay that little shit whatever he wants.

Heck, I’ll give him everything I’ve got if he just gives me back my girl. ”

At Stella’s side, Hagen stiffened up, maybe because he remembered his own fury and determination when a crazed pianist had kidnapped his sister.

Mannie hobbled up to Stella and locked eyes with her, his expression a picture of frustration, rage, and even, in the tightness of his cheeks, shame at having lost his child.

“But once I’ve got my little girl, I’ll expect you to track down that bastard, bring back my money, and throw that greasy piece of garbage into the deepest, darkest dungeon the FBI’s got. ”

Stella started to protest that the FBI didn’t have dungeons but thought better of it.

At times, she’d wished the FBI did have dark and smelly underground cellars to throw the worst of them in.

“Look, the FBI doesn’t condone the paying of ransoms. That tends to encourage kidnappers to do it again, and?—”

Mannie snarled. “So what would you suggest?”

She tried to ignore his tone, telling herself he was a father under duress. “We understand families just want to get their loved ones back and are willing to do whatever it takes. We will need to set up monitoring on your phones for further communications. That’s the first order of business.”

He kicked a foot at the phone on the coffee table as if to say, Have at it .

Stella ignored the aggressive gesture. “Our technical team is already analyzing the original message. The kidnappers have given you ’til Wednesday to get the money together. That gives us some time to find another way to bring your daughter home. We’re going to pursue every option we have.”

Hagen interrupted the silence that followed as the parents digested this information. “Is there anyone else we can talk to? Friends? Work colleagues?”

Frances sighed. “Tyra doesn’t have a job. She finished art school, came home, and has been hanging around ever since. Moved right back into her old bedroom without missing a beat.”

“Friends, then?”

Mannie shook his head. “She doesn’t tell us what she’s doing.

I do know most of her high school friends have moved out of town, to New York or some other city.

But I have a feeling none of them have heard from her anyway.

My sense was that her social life revolved around the mechanic.

That’s where you need to go. You need to talk to him. ”