Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

we’re going?”
    She suddenly turns, the rage so apparent on her face that I freeze. “You know what? I’m sick of you! You’re nothing but a baby. A stupid, scared rabbit.”
    “I just want to know where we’re going.”
    “All you ever do is whine and complain! Well, I’ve had enough. I’m done with you.” She reaches into the tote bag and pulls out the bundle of American money. She breaks the rubber band and thrusts half the cash at me. “Here, take it and get out of my sight. If you’re so smart, go your own way.”
    “Why are you doing this?” I feel hot tears in my eyes. Not because I’m afraid, but because she is my only friend. And I know that I am losing her.
    “You’re a drag on me, Mila. You’ll slow me down. I don’t want to have to watch out for you all the time. I’m
not
your fucking mother!”
    “I never wanted you to be.”
    “Then why don’t you grow up?”
    “And why don’t you stop being a bitch!”
    The car takes us by surprise. We are so focused on each other that we do not notice its approach. Suddenly it rounds the curve, and the headlights trap us like doomed animals. Tires screech to a stop. It is an old car, and the engine makes knocking noises as it idles.
    The driver sticks his head out the window. “You two ladies need help,” he says. It sounds more like a statement than a question, but then our situation is obvious. A freezing night. Two women stranded on a lonely road. Of course we need help.
    I gape at him, silent. It is Olena who takes command, as she always does. In an instant she has transformed. Her walk, her voice, the provocative way she thrusts out her hip—this is Olena at her most seductive. She smiles and says, in throaty English: “Our car is dead. Can you drive us?”
    The man studies her. Is he just being cautious? Somehow he realizes that something is very wrong here. I am on the edge of retreating back into the woods, before he can call the police.
    When he finally answers, his voice is flat, revealing no hint that Olena’s charms have affected him. “There’s a service station up the road. I need to stop there for gas anyway. I’ll ask about a tow truck.”
    We climb into the car. Olena sits in the front seat, I huddle in the back. I have stuffed the money she gave me into my pocket, and now it feels like a glowing lump of coal. I am still angry, still wounded by her cruelty. With this money, I can manage without her, without anyone. And I will.
    The man does not talk as he drives. At first I think he is merely ignoring us, that we are of no interest to him. Then I catch a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror, and I realize he’s been studying me, studying both of us. In his silence, he’s as alert as a cat.
    The lights of the service station glow ahead, and we pull into the driveway and stop beside the pump. The man gets out to fill his tank, then he says to us: “I’ll ask about the tow truck.” He walks into the building.
    Olena and I remain in the car, uncertain of our next move. Through the window, we see our driver talking to the cashier. He points to us, and the cashier picks up a phone.
    “He’s calling the police,” I whisper to Olena. “We should leave. We should run
now.
” I reach for the door and am about to push it open when a black car swings into the service station and pulls up right beside our car. Two men step out, both dressed in dark clothes. One of them has white-blond hair, cut short as a brush. They look at us.
    In an instant, my blood freezes in my veins.
    We are trapped animals in this stranger’s car, and two hunters have now surrounded us. The blond man stands right outside my door, gazing in at me, and I can only stare back through the window at the last face the Mother ever saw. The last face I will probably ever see.
    Suddenly, the blond man’s chin snaps up and his gaze shifts to the building. I turn and see that our driver has just stepped outside, and is walking toward the car. He has paid for the gas, and he is stuffing his wallet back in his pocket. He slows down, frowning at the two men who now flank his car.
    “Can I help you gentlemen?” our driver asks.
    The blond man answers. “Sir, could we ask you a few questions?”
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m Special Agent Steve Ullman. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
    Our driver does not seem particularly impressed by this. He reaches into the service station bucket and picks up a squeegee. Wrings out the excess water and begins