Not Fred the Fireman, the only Breen son not serving in the armed forces. The one his brothers loved to tease. It wasn’t about the Kessler billions, not really. It was more about … worthiness. To win someone like Rachel, there ought to be tests—feats of strength, or daring quests.
The difference between his world and Rachel’s had never been clearer than during the evening broadcast of the Congressional Subcommittee on Internet Security’s hearings, which had taken place that afternoon. He joined Rachel in the living room, but instead of sitting on the couch with her, he chose the uncomfortable horsehair armchair he’d sat in that very first day. He wasn’t sure why; all he knew was that he needed to keep some distance.
Rachel didn’t say anything about the seating arrangement. She whistled softly for Greta, who trotted across the room and curled up at her feet. She clicked the remote that controlled the wall panels hiding the big flat-screen, and selected C-SPAN.
As they watched Rob Kessler testify, Fred’s heart slowly sank into the region of his toes. The ones in worn tube socks with holes in the heels.
Facing the most powerful men and women in the nation, Rob Kessler made them all look like idiots, the way the guys at the computer store made him feel when his hard drive crashed. Brilliant, articulate, dynamic, even photogenic, he ruled that hearing the way a kindergarten teacher rules recess.
Rob Kessler probably never had holes in his socks.
Fred was frowning at the big plasma screen, searching for similarities to Rachel—same winged eyebrows, same bold cheekbones—when suddenly he found himself staring at a picture of her as a little girl. Her hair was in two braids on either side of her head and she wore a red sweater with a pattern of snowflakes around the neck. There was a gap between her two front teeth.
C-SPAN had taken a break from the testimony while a point of discussion got hashed out in private. To fill the time, they were running a profile of Rob Kessler.
“It was the most notorious kidnapping since the Lindbergh case, the kind of thing we’re more used to seeing in Colombia, where the children of the wealthy are under constant threat. Rachel Kessler, eight years old at the time, was snatched off her bicycle and held captive for nearly a month.”
Shots of an exclusive neighborhood scrolled across the screen.
“A ransom note was received, but then withdrawn. Two days later another note was delivered. Every communication was sent not only to Rob Kessler, but to the local San Francisco TV station. Experts speculated that the kidnapper was someone with a big grudge against the Kessler family, someone seeking attention, because nothing seemed to satisfy him. Even once the original ransom amount was paid, he demanded more.”
They switched to a shot of Rob Kessler, much younger, shoving his way through a crowd of reporters.
“Just when investigators were beginning to despair of a breakthrough, little Rachel Kessler, in an incredible act of bravery, managed to escape. A neighbor in the remote Mojave Desert found her passed out under their trailer, bloodied, bruised, and dehydrated. The kidnapper was never located.”
The newscaster, a middle-aged man Fred didn’t recognize, paused for drama.
“To this day, Rachel Kessler has never gone public with her story, although she was, of course, questioned extensively by the FBI. Little is known about her current whereabouts, though we have learned that she no longer resides at Cranesbill, the Kessler estate. Wherever she is, it’s safe to assume she’s under tight security. All requests for comment from the Kessler camp were denied. In the journalistic world, an interview with Rachel Kessler would be considered one of the biggest ‘gets’ of any reporter’s career.”
Fred felt sick. The newscaster called Rachel a “get,” as if she were some sort of hunting quarry. Maybe that’s how the kidnapper had thought of her too. A “get.” He glanced over at the couch. Rachel’s face had gone completely blank and dead white. Her hands were deep in Greta’s fur, gripping so tight her dog gave a soft little whine.
“Rachel,” he said sharply, to break the spell she seemed to be under. “Are you okay? That newscaster’s a freaking idiot.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at him. When they’d started watching the broadcast, he’d been lost in his own thoughts, far away from her. Now it was her turn to be distant, and he hated the feeling. Panicking, he launched himself across the room and grabbed her by the shoulders. She didn’t resist. It was as if she was somewhere else entirely.
“Rachel. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me what’s going on. Please talk to me.”
Slowly her eyes seemed to focus, the lost look replaced by something hard and desperate. Her eyebrows drew together, slanting across her forehead. Two spots of pink appeared in her cheeks. “Let’s go out,” she said abruptly.
“What?”
“Out. I want to go out. We need to celebrate.” She jumped to her feet, stumbling a little. He gripped her elbow to steady her. Shaking him off, she dashed in the direction of her bedroom.
He scrambled after her. “Celebrate what?”