Annabelle was about to reply when she heard the phone being moved around on the other end. Cassie got back on the line.
“We’re going,” she said softly. She sounded resigned. “This is because of Max, isn’t it?” She said then, in the same resigned tone. “He was killed, wasn’t he?”
Annabelle’s mouth opened. She blinked. “How did you know?”
“Klonapin. It doesn’t work that way.”
Annabelle closed her eyes. “I know.” She should have had more faith in her friend’s ability to put two and two together. Cassie had been a medical assistant. She would know things.
“Wait,” Cassie said then, and Annabelle could hear a man’s voice in the background. “He wants to talk to Jack.”
Annabelle held the phone out to Jack. “He wants to talk to you.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. This was odd. He couldn’t think of anything he’d left out of his instructions. He gently took the phone from her and held it to his ear.
“Mr. Thane,” Alex said.
“Yes.”
“I just got word from Nicholas. Your daughter’s at the airport.”
Annabelle had never ridden in a limousine before. For prom, during her Junior year, her date had offered to pick her up in one and she’d refused. The limousines they used in her home town all came from the funeral home. Ick and more ick.
But this was different.
For one, it wasn’t white and didn’t have the words, “Samson and Miller, Since 1906” painted on the side.
It was black. Deep, dark, forever black, and the windows were tinted to match. No one in the world would be able to see its passengers from outside. They were invisible. Nonexistent. Like shadows that people forget are there.
It also possessed the most disgustingly opulent interior she’d ever experienced. The seats were constructed of such a soft leather that she was certain whatever animals had provided the skin had died before their first birthdays. There were mirrors on side panels and round tables that came out of the floor boards at the touch of a button and whirred around 360 degrees. There were speakers all around them and, behind a curtain on one end was a large flat-screened television.
To Annabelle, it was overkill. Something about it felt wrong. And it wasn’t just the dead babies she was sitting on. It was sort of like… a lie. Dress up a cage in silks and satins and it was still a cage.
And it didn’t seem like Jack. Not the Jack she knew.
Or thought she knew.
With that uncomfortable contemplation, she turned to stare out the window once more and forced her thoughts in another direction.
They were on their way to the airport. Jack was in the front seat with Alex, effectively cut off from the passengers in the back. Trinity and Cassie sat across from Annabelle and Dylan sat beside her, his own gaze turned to something beyond the windows. Something only he could see.
The two girls sat on the plush carpeted floor boards, engrossed in a game of Hang Man. Emma and Rose were four-year-old twins. And they were brilliant. They’d known how to read before their fourth birthdays and could now write several impressively thorny words.
One of which, Rose now tested Emma with on a small pink pad of paper that had Hello Kitty on the front.
Annabelle knew what the word was. She’d always been good at Hangman. For some reason, she’d deduced this particular word after Emma had only guessed the letter “E”.
Escape.
She wouldn’t give the answer up, of course. How thoughtless would that be? Besides, Annabelle had her own riddle to puzzle out at the moment. For the gazillionth time that night, she looked down at the white piece of paper in her hand.
Fourth SS plus T: _RA_G _RAN_ _ at CUMC
A word puzzle. The underscores could only be missing letters. But what did the “fourth SS” part mean? And the plus T? Was “fourth SS” actually a number and you had to add the “T” to it?
That wouldn’t be good. A puzzle with a mixture of numbers and letters had far too many possible outcomes. Game theory could be a bugger.
What about the CUMC? Sounded like a University.
Annabelle’s eyes widened.
“A University!”
Dylan turned to face her. “What are you talking about?”
“The CUMC. It could be the initials of a University. Do you know of one? Maybe… Colorado University or California University… No...”
“Columbia.”
Annabelle and Dylan looked up at Cassie, who’d spoken from her seat across from them. “Columbia University Medical Center.”
Annabelle looked from her to the paper and back up again. “Jeez, Cass, I think you got it!”
Of course she would get it. Duh.
Cassie smiled gently, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was tired. And she was scared – and she didn’t know half as much about their situation as she would like to. But Annabelle had told her everything she’d known. So, they were in the same boat. It just wasn’t a comfortable boat. It was rocking and it had leaks in it.
“Columbia University Medical Center… It makes sense,” Dylan said, leaning forward now to look at the paper again. “Mom worked for a pharmaceutical company. And before that, she was in medical school. She got an MD on a full scholarship but quit to go to design school because she decided, one day, that medical school had been
Annabelle placed her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Let me see that, Ann.” Cassie had leaned forward as well and was eyeing the paper in Annabelle’s hand. Annabelle handed it over and Cassie turned it around to study it. “This other mess is a mystery to me. What are these underscores?”
“I think they’re missing letters.”
“What about the ‘fourth’ and the ‘ss’ nonsense?”
“I don’t…” Annabelle’s voice trailed off. She straightened. “Cass, when you filled out those forms for the doctor you worked for, what was the abbreviation for a person’s social?”
“SS.”
“You think it refers to a social security number?” Dylan asked.
“Could be.” Annabelle said.
“A ‘fourth’ social security number?” Cassie asked.
Annabelle shook her head. “I have no idea. If it is a social security number that Max referred to, then was it one of four numbers?”
“Maybe it was four specific numbers inside the social,” Dylan suggested, getting excited again.
“Which four?” Cassie asked. “And whose number?”
“It would have to be my dad’s,” Dylan said. “This message was for you, Miss Drake, and he wouldn’t want you off searching for some un-known person’s social, right?” He paused then, and considered something. “But you don’t know his social, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Then he knew that we’d be working together. Because I do.”
Annabelle took a deep breath. “Well, we don’t know for sure that his social is what he was referring to, but if
