Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)(54)
To get to the woods, she had to cross the open space. A wide, open space. She stepped out of the shadows and started toward the trees. Desperation and hope fueled her steps. She broke into a stumbling jog. Sticks and rocks bit into her feet as she ran for the cover of the forest.
Somewhere behind her, a dog barked. She glanced over her shoulder. A light went on in one of the cabin’s windows.
Oh, my God.
He was there!
Chelsea ran faster. One more glance back showed more lights. A door opened, light spilling out.
No more looking back. Adrenaline blocked the pain. Her legs remembered this. Running. She did it every day. Muscle memory carried her toward the trees. She blocked out all thoughts of what would happen if he caught her.
Please.
Bella. William.
Mommy loves you.
The slap of a screen door echoed in the night air.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Enough.” He tossed the chained hound a scrap of beef. The dog snapped his reward out of the air and swallowed it whole. The beast knew its job. It had learned.
He scanned the silent yard. Everything looked the same as when he’d gone inside.
The container stood in silence under the thick spread of branches. It had been on the property when he’d purchased it. From the amount of rust on the steel exterior, the metal box had been there for many years. He’d painted the spots of cancer to keep them from spreading.
He crossed the mossy ground and checked the door. Reaching out, he touched the padlock that secured the door. Locked.
But something didn’t feel right.
Turning his head, he listened. The snap of a twig reverberated from the darkness of the trees. A deer?
He pulled the key from his pocket, unlocked the padlock, and opened the door. The dim light of the camp lantern shone on an empty box. His gaze took in the chain, the upturned cot, the enlarged hole in the ceiling. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he blinked. But it didn’t change reality.
She’d escaped.
Anger spiked inside him, red and hot and sputtering like a thick boiling liquid. He breathed the cold night air deeply into his lungs. Emotions wouldn’t find her. A cool head would.
He’d purposefully chosen a smart woman.
Be careful what you wish for.
Pivoting, he sprinted for the house. In the kitchen, he grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and his flashlight from the counter, then turned back toward the door.
Wait.
He returned to the drawer and withdrew a handgun and checked the load. Then he went back outside and returned to the container. Shining the light on the ground, he found a footprint in the soft earth. Slim arch. Small toes.
Chelsea.
Arcing the light back and forth, he spotted another print and connected the dots. The line pointed straight into the woods. He picked up speed, projecting her trajectory.
“Where are you, Chelsea?” he called. “You can’t get away from me. If you come back now, I won’t hurt you, but if I have to hunt you down, you’ll be sorry.”
Very sorry.
Maybe his lessons hadn’t been firm enough. He could fix that. When he found her, she wouldn’t be able to run away. Hell, she wouldn’t be able to walk.
Or crawl.
He started down a game trail, his light seeking and finding a footprint and a spot of dark liquid. He squatted and touched it. Turning over his hand, he examined the bright smudge.
Blood.
Still wet and bright.
She hadn’t gotten far.
He straightened, tilting his head and straining for sounds.
She was barefoot, wearing a dress as bright as a beacon. She didn’t have a coat, just a blanket to protect her from the fall-crisp air. Though the temperature wasn’t low enough to cause frostbite, she’d definitely suffer hypothermia.
No. He’d find her. He had to.
She was his.
He felt for the gun in his pocket. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.
Underbrush rustled to his left—and another sound.
Heavy breathing?
He turned toward the sound and broke into a jog. She was close. He could feel her. Smell her. Sense her.
They were connected by a link that could be broken by only one thing: death.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At nine thirty Friday morning, Lance followed Morgan into her office and watched her get settled. “Good morning.”
She set her bag and stainless steel travel mug on her desk, removed her coat, and hung it in the closet. Her pants and suit jacket were black, and so were the circles under her eyes.
Worry pulled at him. She’d spent hours the previous day hashing out the details of the reward offered by Rand with the sheriff’s department. As predicted, the sheriff was pissed off, but he’d taken on the responsibility. The hotline was supposed to be up and running, and a press conference was scheduled for that evening. Morgan would have spent the night drafting rough statements for Tim and Rand.