I forced myself to smile wider. “Yes, Tomas is going to State. In fact, I need to get him to his bus ASAP, so if you could just tell them I’m here.”

She frowned and looked flustered. “They went back out to get the bridal gown; Connie didn’t want to leave it in the car, you know how brides are.”

I didn’t actually, but I nodded and smiled, and said, “The dress is in the car still, but Connie and Tomas aren’t in the parking lot.”

“They’re probably sitting in the car,” she said.

“I checked the car, that’s how I know her dress is on the backseat and two other garment bags are hanging up.”

“And they’re not in the car?” she asked.

I took a deep calming breath. “No, Anne, they’re not, and they’re not in here?”

“No, and”—she looked up at a wall clock—“oh my, they went out to get the dress half an hour ago. You’re sure they aren’t out there somewhere?”

“I’m sure they’re out there somewhere, Anne, because they’re not in here, but they aren’t in the parking lot.” I resisted the urge to ask why she hadn’t checked on them. She was a civilian, a soft, fluffy, easily flustered civilian, and it wasn’t her job to serve and protect, or even to not be a fucking useless . . . It was my nerves talking. I would have been totally useless at her job here with all the sequined dresses and demanding brides; we all have our strengths. I told myself that as I dialed Connie’s cell phone.

I prayed, “Please let them have called a friend, her fiancé, anything. Let me have made this trip for nothing, just as long as they’re all right.”

Connie’s phone went to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. I hung up and called Tomas. “Come on, come on, pick up, pick up.”

Anne the saleslady had picked up my anxiety by now and was hovering worriedly around me. I walked away farther into the shop for some privacy and because my nerves were enough without hers. The one thing I didn’t like about the headset was that ambient noise could make it harder to hear.

I left a message this time. “Tomas, this is Anita Blake. I’m here to see you get to the bus for State. Where are you and Connie?”

I called Connie’s phone back. Voice mail again, damn it. “Connie, this is Anita Blake, Manny sent me to get you guys. I’m at the bridal shop, where are you?”

I didn’t want to call Manny yet. There could be logical, safe explanations, but part of me knew that if Connie was so worried about her wedding dress that she didn’t want it left in the car for a few minutes, she would not have walked off and left it in the car like this. My Spideysense had been tingling since I found the empty car. Sometimes it’s not paranoia; it’s just the truth.

My phone rang; it was Connie’s number. I hit the button on the earpiece. “Connie, where are you guys?”

“I’m sorry, Anita, Consuela can’t come to the phone right now.” It was a man’s voice. It seemed familiar.

“Why can’t Connie come to the phone?” I asked.

“She’s a little tied up, or should I say duct-taped.”

“Where’s Tomas?”

“He’s nearby, but I wanted to talk to my sister alone.” I could hear that he was in a car, driving. They weren’t that far yet. Maybe.

“Sister. Manny and Rosita only have one son.”

“That’s right, Manny and Rosita only have one son, and two beautiful daughters,” he said.

I didn’t like the way he emphasized beautiful, but I also knew the phrasing about Manny and Rosita was important to him. I just didn’t know why. He hadn’t told me not to contact the police. Thanks to being on the headset I could text and he wouldn’t hear anything, like the text alert noise, not if I turned off my sounds. I knew how to do that, yay! I texted Zerbrowski while I kept trying to think of ways to keep the familiar voice talking. As long as he was talking he couldn’t hurt them, or that’s what I told myself.

The text to Zerbrowski was simple: “Manny’s daughter & son kidnapped. I’m talking on phone with the kidnapper.”

“So how can you be their brother, if they only have three kids?” I asked.

“Half-brother,” he said.

Zerbrowski texted back: “where are you?”

I got the address from Anne the saleslady.

He texted that a car was on its way to my location now.

I texted back: “I don’t know if lights & sirens will spook him, or help?”

“I’ll make it a silent run,” he texted.

I trusted his judgment. I went back to talking to the nut job on the phone, and suddenly I knew the voice. Brent had called him a nut job just three days ago during the live feed. My pulse was in my throat, and I had to breathe carefully for it not to show in my voice. “So you’re Manny’s son from a different mother.”

“Yes, did he tell you about me?”

I debated on what to say, and finally chose truth; I didn’t always lie well enough. “No, but I know he was wild when he was young, and Rosita never sowed any wild oats.”

“She looks so dull and ordinary. How could he have chosen her over the Señora?”

“Señora?” I made it a question.

“The Señora—don’t you know who I am, Anita? Don’t you know who my mama was?”

I had one of those moments when things click into place. “Oh holy shit, Dominga Salvador doesn’t have two nephews, she has a nephew and a son. That’s why you called yourself sir, like Señora.”