Page 68 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

I gesture for her to follow me around. I scan the street to make sure we don’t have any neighbors’ eyes on us and then follow a narrow path to the back garden.

It’s a small, claustrophobic space. A clothesline zig-zags through it, burdened with damp laundry. I duck underneath a white sheet and walk up to the back door.

The door is set with a window that looks in on the kitchen. I don’t see anyone when I peer inside. It takes me all of twenty seconds to pick the lock.

“I’m not sure breaking in is the right way to gain their trust.”

“Your way didn’t work,” I tell her. “So we’re doing things my way now.”

We step into the kitchen. I hear movement in the next room. They definitely know we’re here.

“Mrs. Perego?” I call. “We just want to talk.”

“Get out of my house or I’ll call the police!” a woman’s voice lashes out.

It’s an empty threat. If she was going to call the police, she would have done it already.

“Mrs. Perego,” I try again, “we know what happened to your daughter. We just want to help.”

Her head pokes through the doorway opposite. Large brown eyes in a heart-shaped face. Timid, fearful. Much too young to be the mother of a teenager.

“Help?” she snaps viciously. “Am I supposed to buy that again?” Her words are slightly accented. The child of immigrants, if I had to guess.

“Yes,” I say, with as much calm as I can muster. “Help.”

“You don’t look like the kind of people who help.”

“Not usually,” I concede. “So this is your lucky day.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she comes out from around the corner and steps over the threshold. Her eyes land on Jennifer and narrow into suspicious slits.

“I told you not to come back.”

“I’m stubborn when it’s a good cause, Mrs. Perego,” Jennifer says, standing at my right shoulder. “We just want to help catch the asshole who hurt your daughter.”

Her eyes go wide with pure, animalistic fear. “My husband drinks,” she says at once. “And when he drinks, he makes things up. Whatever he told you—whatever you think he told you—it’s not true.”

“Is Lana here?” I ask.

She flinches. That’s all the answer I need.

“Can we speak to her?”

“She’s shy.”

I take a step forward. Mrs. Perego stiffens. She’s half my size. Can’t be older than thirty, but she’s lived hard enough to be twice that.

“What’s your name?” I ask quietly.

She stares at me for a long moment before deciding to answer. “Salma.”

“Salma,” I murmur. “I know why you’re scared. I know why your daughter is scared. But we’re trying to get the motherfucker that hurt her so that he can’t hurt any more little girls.”

Just then, I notice another little face poke out from around the corner. She has Salma's eyes in a young, thin frame. There’s no denying that she’s a child.

My blood churns hot.That fucking asshole.

“Hello, Lana.”

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