Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)(65)

“Patricia is upstairs reading to Bella. Rand is taking a nap, or so he says. He was looking pretty rough.” Tim frowned. “The call from the sheriff took a toll on all of us, which is the opposite of what you would think, right? We should be jumping for joy, yet we’re a mess.”

Morgan empathized. John’s death had devastated her, but how would it feel to never know what had happened to her husband? To never have closure? Like Lance. “I don’t think there’s any right or wrong way to feel. This is a horrible situation no one should have to handle.”

Tim poured himself a mug of coffee and then eased into a chair with his back to the TV. Morgan sat across from him. Lance paced the kitchen.

“Are you ready for the news conference?” Morgan asked Tim.

“I don’t know. I’m not good on camera. Maybe it would be better to let Rand talk.”

“Rand’s reward offer and his heartfelt plea as Chelsea’s father will help, but the public will want to hear from you too. You are Chelsea’s husband. The father of her children. They need to hear how much you and the kids miss her and need her back. Whenever a woman disappears or is killed, the husband or boyfriend is always the primary suspect. If you and Rand present a united front, it will help shape public opinion.”

Tim looked up. “I don’t care about public opinion. I just want my wife back.”

“Rand is offering money for the help of the community. He wants their help. It would seem very odd if you didn’t speak.” Morgan couldn’t help but jump ahead. What if the next body that turned up was Chelsea? With or without evidence, Tim would be a suspect in the public’s eye.

Next to her, Lance stopped. His body stiffened. Morgan followed his line of sight to the small TV. On it, a shaky camera recording, taken through a windshield, showed a blonde woman staggering on the side of the road. She wore a dirty yellow dress and had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was barefoot. Blonde hair fell in a dirty wave to her shoulders. Her face was bruised and swollen.

A car pulled onto the shoulder, followed by the vehicle in which the person filming the scene was riding.

Morgan stood. “Turn on the sound.”

But Lance was already on it.

Tim spun in his chair. “Oh, my God.”

The audio played on the TV. They heard traffic sounds, then a man’s voice. “It’s a woman. She appears to be hurt.”

Yet the man continued to film rather than help her.

The woman collapsed onto the asphalt. A man in the car ahead got out of his sedan and hurried to her side, dropping to his knees on the road. A few seconds later, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her, then turned and gestured to the man taking the video. “Stop filming and call an ambulance!”

The “you idiot” was implied.

Morgan’s gaze shifted from the screen to Tim.

He hadn’t moved. His face was frozen in shock. “It’s Chelsea.”





Chapter Twenty-Six

He paced the plywood floor of the storage container. The door was open, and daylight flooded the space. No point in closing it now.

She was gone. No. Not gone. She’d left him.

This was his first chance to examine the evidence. He’d tried to find her all night. And this morning he’d had other things to do.

The distinction hit him squarely in the chest with an ache of betrayal. How could he have been so wrong about her? Why didn’t he foresee her deception?

The mistake was his, not hers. He’d challenged a superior female, and she’d risen to the test. Overconfidence had been his error. It wouldn’t happen again. When he took her the next time, it would be final. She’d know there would be no getting away.

And he would eliminate any reasons for her to escape, which meant he’d need to eliminate her family.

But first he needed to know how she’d defeated him. He scanned the evidence in front of him. Squatting, he picked up the chain. The lock was opened, not broken, so she’d picked it somehow. She could have had a pin in her hair that he hadn’t seen. Next time he’d search her hair carefully.

The cot was on its side under a hole in the roof. When he’d left her the night before, the hole had been too small for a person to squeeze through. He’d made sure of it. But Chelsea had enlarged it. Rust had weakened the structure of the ceiling. She’d seen this and taken advantage of it. Then she’d used the cot to boost herself to the roof. If she hadn’t been able to fit, she would never have managed it.

Maybe she was too smart.

She’d certainly outsmarted him. He should have shored up the hole. He’d left it so she could see the passage of time and have a small amount of fresh air. Obviously, that had been a mistake. Next time he would use complete darkness and disorientation as an additional tool.