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“The prints your police found on the third letter sent over actually did match someone in the system. Frankie…shit…the fingerprints belong to Guadalupe Ortiz. It’s your mom.”
Xavier and I just stared at each other over the phone.
“I—what?” I asked, even as Xavier was turning toward the airport security footage now replaying on one of Elsie’s monitors.
It was another bit of bad luck that no matter the angle, absolutely none of the cameras at the private airport had managed to capture the kidnapper’s face. It certainly didn’t have the same type of security as a place like Heathrow.
But now, as I watched the kidnapper for what was probably the fiftieth time usher Sofia out the front doors, I recognized the short, squat shape of my mother, wisps of her ashy blond hair sticking out from the thick cap that shielded her face.
“That’swhy she didn’t fight it,” I murmured, even as my heart turned to ice. “That’s why the airport security didn’t think anything of her leaving without Elsie.” I turned to Xavier. “I don’t think Sofia even knows her name. Just would have called herabuela, like my mom has always said, and everyone would have thought she was the perfect grandmother.”
“No one would have seen it. Christ, it’s the perfect crime.” Xavier shook his head. “Is she really that obsessed with getting to know you?”
“It’s for money,” I said tightly. “It’s always been for money. You know that. My mother would sell her soul for a bit of publicity and some extra cash. I’m sure there will be a heavy ransom request coming if there hasn’t been already.”
“As it happens…” Jagger said, holding up his phone. “One’s just arrived. An email to the Parker Group addressed to the ‘so-called Duke of Kendal’—the kidnapper’s words, not mine, mate—requesting that you admit to falsifying marital records between the former duke and your mother in front of Parliament, thereby relinquishing your title and all parts of inheritance related to the dukedom that go with it.”
Xavier blinked. “You’re kidding. This is about mytitle?” His gaze raced back to me. “Georgina.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.” She had seemed awfully distressed on the phone.
“Plus fifty million pounds,” Jagger added wryly. “Messenger fee, I reckon.”
“And that’s why my mother’s involved,” I said dryly.
“Derek?” Xavier demanded. “Did you hear all that?”
There was a sigh. “Send me the email. Maybe we can trace the IP address. Honestly, I don’t know. This isn’t my jurisdiction, so I’ll have to be working with law enforcement over there. I don’t know the legalities of everything.”
“Els, send it to the other agencies too,” Xavier said. “This has to be from Georgina. Has to.”
“Already done, boy.”
“I’m not agreeing to shit,” Xavier told Jagger flatly. Until he caught my expression.
“You’ll agree to whatever it takes to get Sofia back safely,” I told him point-blank. “I don’t care if we become paupers in the process. I don’t care if you have to lie on your back and call yourself a puppy dog in front of Parliament and the queen, Xavi. You will do whatever it fucking takes to get our baby girl back!”
I wasn’t going to say it out loud, but he knew it was true. None of this would have happened if he wasn’t who he was. If he didn’t have things my mother wanted. That Georgina or whoever else was behind this wanted.
Xavier swallowed roughly as he sank to his haunches beside me. “We’ll find her before it comes to that.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Derek interrupted.
We both jumped, having forgotten he was on the other end of the line.
“When anyone enters the UK, you know they have to leave a forwarding address. And, well…I don’t know if this was her being dumb or brilliant. But Xavier, she left yours, apparently.”
Xavier frowned. “Mine? As in Mayfair?”
“No, I mean, your old one. In some place called Croydon. On South End road. Does that ring any bells?”
Xavier stilled as I turned to him. His blue eyes sparked with danger. And recognition.
“That’s…that’s my old flat,” he said. “The one above my mum’s restaurant. Ch-Christ. They’re inCroydon?”
“It’s probably just a practical joke,” Derek said. “I really don’t think she could be that dumb to provide theactualaddress where she was going.”
“Then you don’t know my mother,” I said dryly. “She doesn’t exactly think.”
