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He was lying in a pool of his own blood, the same blood that dripped from her hands, from the blade of the little knife she still gripped.
And as she watched, her father turned his head, and those dead eyes smiled at her. “It always comes back to the beginning, little girl.”
She came out of it on a muffled cry to find herself wrapped in Roarke’s arms.
“Dreaming, that’s all. You’re all right. I’m here.”
“It’s okay.” She drew in his scent to steady herself. “I’m okay. It wasn’t bad.”
“You’re shaking.” He ordered the lights on low, and the fire on so the room glowed softly, and the flames burst into life in the hearth.
“It was just mostly weird. Weird and creepy.”
“Dancing numbers?” He kept his voice light, but held her close and tight. “Flying babies?”
“Not this time.” She ordered herself to relax, just relax against him. “Tangling up my cases,” she said after she told him of the dream. “And ended with the big finish. Bastard always manages to get in there.”
“Lie back down now. Let it go.”
She let him draw her back, let herself curl in. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, or to let it go. “There was this sense of urgency. I had to find Tandy, but even when I did, I couldn’t get to her. And there was Natalie Copperfield, and all I could think was that she deserved better from me. She’s trapped there, with those damn numbers, until I can fix it. Add it up. Make it come out right.”
“No point in telling you you’re spread too thin.”
“No, no point. Sorry.”
“Then let me remind you that you’re not alone in that white room, that white tunnel, or even in that goddamned room in Dallas. Not anymore.”
She tilted her head so she could see his face, lifted her hand so she could touch it. “Thank God.”
He kissed her forehead. “Well now, you managed a rousing three hours of sleep. Back on the clock, are we?”
She didn’t argue about eating a decent breakfast first. Instead she programmed a couple of whoppers herself while he dressed.
“And here’s my lovely wife, serving me breakfast on a Sunday morning.”
“You earned it.” She gave the cat a baleful stare as he meandered over from the spot of sunlight where he’d been curled. “You haven’t.” But Galahad sent her such a mournful look, she rolled her eyes, went back to the AutoChef and ordered him up some breakfast kibble and a small side of tuna.
“Played you,” Roarke said as he dug into his eggs.
“Maybe, but it’ll keep him from begging and sneaking while we eat. I’m thinking,” she began.
“As ever.”
“The Italian case, too close to mine for comfort. If they connect, it most likely puts this Applebee in the clear. And it points to someone who targets women in this situation.”
“Pregnant, no family to speak of, new city—toward the end of their term.”
“Right. And while I don’t pop out others that match just so, who’s to say there haven’t been others—women who weren’t reported missing. Or others that came through IRCCA that didn’t play out exactly the same way as these two. And if so, it could lean several ways.”
Considering, he cut into the short stack of pancakes he’d drizzled with syrup. “A long way from Rome to New York if you’re talking about someone who stalks women in this situation, abducts them. And Sophia Belego has never been found, leading to the assumption that the abductor then disposes of them.”
“Or disposes of the woman. Babies are a commodity.”
“Black market sales, slavery, illegal adoptions. Yes, a commodity they are.”
She forked up some pancakes, and though they were already swimming in syrup, dunked them in more. Across from her, Roarke actually winced.
“It should make your teeth hurt,” he commented.
