Paul got out of the car first, his hand smoothing back the flap of hair that covered the top of his balding head. He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and blue tie—nothing flashy. Amanda would have coached them not to appear too wealthy or too well dressed; not for fear of the kidnapper, but because the press would be scrutinizing every inch of the parents to find a vulnerability that could be exploited for their lead paragraph.

Abigail opened her car door just as Paul reached for the handle. Her long, shapely legs were bare, her shoes modestly heeled. She was wearing a dark blue skirt and an off-white cotton blouse of the sort Faith Mitchell seemed to favor. The overall look was understated, reserved. Except for the ninety-thousand-dollar car, she could be any soccer mom within a five-mile radius.

Yesterday's fight was obviously still fresh for the couple, or maybe there had been some new ones in between. There was a distance between them. Even as they walked up the stairs to the loading dock, Paul did not offer his arm, nor did his wife reach to take it.

"Agent Trent," Abigail said. Her voice was thin, her gaze almost lifeless. He wondered if she was still medicated. The woman seemed to have trouble standing upright.

Paul, on the other hand, was almost bouncing on his toes. "I want to talk to your boss."

"You'll see her in a minute," Will said, opening the door to the building. They walked down the narrow hallway to the private elevator that serviced the police station. Will could not help but put his hand at Abigail's back as she walked. There was something so fragile about her. The fact that Paul was oblivious to this was not surprising, but Will was taken aback by the renewed anger he felt at the man. His wife was falling apart in front of him and all Paul could think to do was demand to talk to the person in charge.

Will kept his pace slow so that Abigail would not have to struggle to keep up. Paul bounded ahead of them toward the elevator, as if he knew where to go.

Will kept his voice low, telling the woman, "This won't take long."

She looked at him, her red-rimmed eyes filling with tears. "I don't know what to do."

"We'll get you back home as soon—"

"I've got a statement to make," Paul told Will, his loud voice an intrusion in the small space. "You're not going to stop me."

Will tried to temper his anger, but the other man's smug certainty was grating. "What exactly do you want to say?"

"I'm going to offer a bonus."

Will felt sucker punched—again. "A bonus for what?"

"I'm going to tell the kidnapper we'll double the ransom money if Emma isn't harmed."

"That's not how these things—"

"Let me talk to your boss," he interrupted, pressing the call button for the elevator just as the doors opened. "I don't have time to fuck with you."

A crowd of cops filled the ancient elevator. They all recognized the Campanos and gave them a wide berth, vacating the car as quickly as possible.

Paul got on. Will pressed his hand to Abigail's back, gently persuading her to move. He entered his code on the grimy keypad, then pressed the button for the third floor. There was a rumbling somewhere in the bowels of the building, then the doors creaked closed and the car jerked as it slowly started upward.

Among other things, Will had discussed the press conference with Amanda last night. The Campanos were not going to talk to the media because Abigail was too vulnerable and Paul was too volatile. Once they opened their mouths, the press would attack. Even the most innocuous statement could be spun into a damning indictment.

Will told Paul as much now. "This isn't like what you see on television. We don't need you to make a statement. We just need you to be there to remind the kidnappers that Emma has parents who love her."

"Fuck you," Paul barked back, his fists clenching. "You can't stop me from talking to the press."

Will's nose still ached from yesterday. He wondered if he was about to get punched again and how much it would bleed. "I can stop you talking at this particular press conference."

"We'll see what your boss says," Paul told him, crossing his arms. Maybe he wasn't ready to get hit again, either. "I told you yesterday, I'm not fucking around. This guy wants money and we'll give it to him. Whatever he wants. I'm not going to let my baby get hurt."

"It's too late," Abigail said. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but she still managed to be heard. She told her husband, "Don't you know that the worst has already happened?"

Paul looked as if he'd been sucker punched. "Don't say that."

"The only reason he's giving her back is because he's finished with her."

Paul jabbed his finger in her face. "Don't you talk like that, God dammit!"

"It's true," she said, unfazed by the sudden flash of fury. "You know it's true, Paul. You know he's used her every way—"

"Stop it!" he screamed, grabbing her by the arms, shaking her. "You shut up, do you hear me? Just shut up!"

The doors slid open, the bell dinging to indicate they had reached the third floor. A tall man with steel gray hair and bronzed skin stood in front of the open doors. He looked like something out of Garden & Gun, and his face was familiar to Will from the newspaper reports: Hoyt Bentley, Emma Campano's wealthy grandfather. Amanda was beside the man. If she was surprised to find Paul Campano threatening his wife, she didn't show it. She took in Will, her eyes traveling over his bruised face. Her eyebrow lifted, and he instantly understood that they would be having a conversation about how he'd gotten his face punched at a more convenient time.

Hoyt spoke like a man used to being obeyed. "Let go of her, Paul."

"Not until she says it's not true," Paul insisted, as if this was some kind of pissing contest he knew he could win by bullying his wife.

Abigail had obviously dealt with this before. Even in her grief, a hint of sarcasm crept into her tone. "Okay, Paul. It's not true. Emma's fine. I'm sure whoever took her hasn't hurt her or abused her or—"

"Enough," Amanda said. "This is why you're not talking to the press—both of you." She held out her hand, stopping the elevator doors from closing. She directed her words to Paul. "Unless you want your wife to take questions about killing Adam Humphrey?

Or perhaps you'd like to talk about your extramarital affairs?" She gave one of her icy smiles. "This is how it's going to work: you're both going to sit there on the dais and let the cameras roll. I am going to read from a prepared statement, while the press takes photographs, then you are both going to go home and wait for the second call from the kidnapper. Is that clear?"

Paul dropped his hands, fists tight. "Emma's okay," he told his wife, unable to let her have the last word. "This is a ransom, not a kidnapping. Kidnappers don't hurt the victims. They just want money."

Will glanced at Amanda, guessing she was thinking the same thing that he was, which was that Paul's words pretty much confirmed he had hired an outside expert to advise him—and possibly more. The offer of extra money was a calculated risk, but men who were paid by the hour tended to be good at coming up with a scattershot of ideas that justified their large paychecks.