For three hours, there was only silence and the sound of the rain hitting the glass.

I paced the rug, my boots sinking into the thick pile.

Then, the main house phone on Vincent’s desk rang.

Vincent answered it on the second ring, his posture rigid.

He listened, his jaw tightening until the muscle in his cheek twitched.

“I understand,” Vincent said, and ended the call.

He looked across the desk at me, his hands resting flat on the mahogany wood.

“My men arrived at the Chicago house,” he said.

“And?” I asked, gripping the back of a chair.

“Your sister and her husband were not there,” Vincent said.

“They were taken an hour before we arrived.”

My stomach dropped, a cold wave of nausea washing over me.

“How?” I whispered. “Derek was just on the phone.”

“He had a backup plan,” Vincent said. “He knew we would trace the photo.”

A new message notification chimed on my phone, the sound loud in the quiet room.

I snatched it off the desk.

It was a video file from an unknown number.

I pressed play with a trembling thumb.