Page 9 of French Escapade

“How long since you talked to her?” I ask.

The two men look at each other, and Jimmy answers. “We don’t communicate with our families when we deploy.”

“I had a message sent to her to let her know I was coming home, but there’s no way to check if she received it.”

I nod to encourage him to continue.

“The very day we got home, she left a new message. A voicemail this time.”

He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and puts it on speaker. The sound quality is poor, and some words are hard to understand. I obviously don’t know Kenneth Dylan’s sister, but I can hear fear in her voice. Whatever happened to her, she does sound scared.

The metallic voice announcing the end of the message replaces Madison’s voice. Kenneth hangs up and looks at me. “Are you ready to help us?” he asks.

Part of me has second thoughts. If I understood her message well enough, we’re talking about a young adult, not very mature, who was led astray by a would-be Prince Charming. Every year, such fairy tales go sour, and a new bunch of girls is found, down on their luck on the Riviera. Best-case scenario, they buy a one-way ticket home to lick their wounds with their tail between their legs.

Worst case … well, that’s what I’m worried about. Five years in the crime division, and I’ve heard about or witnessed way too many sad-ending stories. The way Madison talked about Arkady is bad news.

So I look into Kenneth’s eyes and say, “I will help. But let me be clear—I’m afraid your sister has gotten herself in a really bad jam.”

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