“He’s on the autism spectrum, so I wouldn’t read too much into his body language.” Morgan fastened her seat belt. “Just being forced to talk to two strangers would be very stressful for him.”
“But he got more uncomfortable when we asked about Chelsea.”
“True. But given that she’s missing, that’s natural. He’s obviously extremely intelligent. We’ll see what turns up in his background check.” Morgan cupped her hands in front of her face and exhaled into them. “Do you think there’s any possibility that someone kidnapped Chelsea to get information from Tim?”
“Then why would Tim come to us to find his wife?”
“I don’t know.” She rubbed her palms together. “And we don’t have a ransom note.”
“No, and it’s been five days since Chelsea disappeared.” Lance reached across the console and took Morgan’s hand in his. Her fingers were freezing. He rubbed her hand between his palms for a few seconds then released it to drive out of the parking lot.
“What if the kidnapper wants to wait until police interest in the case dies down?”
“Typically, the opposite happens. They contact the family immediately to prevent the police from being involved at all.”
Morgan’s thinking line creased the bridge of her nose. “What’s your impression of Elliot?”
“Smart. Ambitious. Workaholic.” The air streaming from the vents warmed, and Lance turned the heater on high.
“His only alibi is his brother, though I can’t come up with any reason Elliot would hurt Chelsea.” Morgan stretched her hands toward the heat vents in the dashboard. “But we should find out more about his wife’s death.”
“I’ll let my mother know, though I’m sure she’ll find it on her own.” Lance checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost eight thirty. “I’ll drop off the list of Speed Net employees tonight. It’ll be a good excuse for the extra visit.” He usually stopped to see his mom once a day.
Heat filled the vehicle until Lance was nearly sweating.
But Morgan settled deeper into her seat with a contented sigh. “I doubt his employees get along as well as he claims. There’s always workplace drama.”
“Throw in high stress levels and a bunch of very young people with outrageous IQs and weak social skills,” Lance added. “It was like a high school in there.”
“Right?” Morgan laughed. “I felt like such a mom.”
She crossed her legs, the movement drawing Lance’s eye fast enough to treat him to a quick flash of pretty thigh. “I don’t think Kirk saw you as a mom.”
And neither did Lance, despite the fact that he loved her kids.
“No?” She seemed cheered by his comment.
“No.” Lance wasn’t giving Kirk a pass because of his autism. The kid had acted weird toward Morgan and even weirder when they’d talked about Chelsea. Until she turned up, no one was getting a pass for any reason except a solid alibi.
Chapter Twelve
Pain surrounded Chelsea. Her entire body hurt. Was there any body part he hadn’t battered?
Not that she could find.
She opened her eyes. They were so swollen that all she could manage were slits. Her vision blurred. She lifted a hand to her face and barely recognized its tender contours.
Giving up, she lay still for a while. Her ribs were bruised. Every time she drew in a breath, it felt as if she was wearing a corset of nails.
Pain rolled over her in waves but eased as she breathed more deeply and smoothly.
You can’t give up!
Chelsea forced her eyelids open a bit farther and scanned the room as much as she could without moving her head. She was still in the shipping container. Still chained to the barrel. She lay on her side, curled naked on the plywood, in the corner where she’d crawled in a feeble attempt to get away from him.
But there had been no escaping.
As punishment for trying to open the drum, he’d ripped the clothes from her body. He’d taken away the cot, the blanket, and the water and left her shivering in an empty metal box.
After a few minutes, she lifted her head a fraction of an inch. The first movement sent dizziness careening though her. Dehydration? She swallowed. Vomiting wasn’t possible. She was so empty she felt hollow. She hadn’t had anything to drink since he’d beaten her, and she didn’t remember when she’d last eaten.
Still, her stomach heaved as she slowly tested each limb with a tiny movement. She curled her toes and clenched her fingers, bent each knee and elbow. Her muscles protested, but her bones felt miraculously intact. There was no blinding agony to indicate a mortal injury; instead she felt an all-over soreness and exhaustion that made her not want to move at all. But that wasn’t an option.