Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)(85)

“Hold on.” A pause suggested Tim was asking his wife. A moment later he came back on the line. “She says yes.”

“We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” Morgan ended the call. “Let’s go see what Chelsea remembers.”





Chapter Thirty-Five

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.” Morgan studied the Clarks over the coffee table in their living room. Dressed in a cozy sweater and yoga pants, Chelsea held her baby in her arms. Tim and Bella flanked her on the sofa. Bella curled up into her mother; Tim’s shoulder pressed into his wife’s.

Their connection went beyond physical touch. Morgan could feel their bond, their unity, from across the six feet of space that separated her and Lance from the family.

“Bella, it’s time for your bath,” Chelsea’s mother called from the doorway and held out her hand toward the little girl. Chelsea’s father stood behind his wife, looking lost, as if he didn’t know what to do.

Bella hesitated, looking up at her mother, and Morgan’s heart bumped in her chest. The poor child was confused and vulnerable.

Chelsea gave her daughter a one-armed hug. “Go with Grandma. I’ll read you a story after your bath.”

The little girl obeyed, casting a reluctant glance back at Chelsea as she left the room with her grandmother.

“Dad, would you take William?” Chelsea asked.

“Of course. He’s starting to like me.” Her father seemed relieved to have a task. He took the baby. “We’ll hang out with Bella and Grandma.”

After her father and son had left the room, Chelsea turned back to Lance and Morgan. “We’re taking it one day—sometimes one moment—at a time. I’m grateful to be home.”

The damage to Chelsea’s body was easy to assess. Every inch of exposed skin was mottled with swelling, healing abrasions, and bruises in varying shades of purple and green. But despite her damaged face, behind the fear and anger, determination shone from her eyes.

He’d beaten her body, but not her spirit.

“Reporters were outside when we came home.” Tim reached for his wife’s hand. “The sheriff made them leave.”

For once, Morgan appreciated Sheriff King’s intimidating and unyielding nature.

“I want him caught. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder,” Chelsea said. “I don’t know if I can take that.”

“You should invest in a good security system,” Lance said. “We can give you some recommendations.”

“Please,” Tim said.

“We might want to move.” Chelsea’s gaze wandered to the window. “I don’t know if I can stay here after . . .”

After she’d been abducted from her own driveway.

Chelsea shook her head. “Now what do you need to know? I’ll try to answer the best I can.”

“What do you remember about the man or the place you were held?” Lance asked.

“I was in a storage container.” Chelsea described finding a nail, picking the lock on her chains, and escaping through a rust hole in the roof. “The container was in a clearing, but there were tree branches overhead and a cabin or small house nearby.” Chelsea closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry. It was dark. Once I was out, and I heard him coming after me, I just ran.”

“How about sounds?”

“I heard a dog barking.”

“No traffic sounds?” Lance asked.

“No.” Chelsea drew her knees up under her chin. She curled her body into a defensive ball. “I wish I could tell you more. I feel useless.”

“Don’t. You did exactly the right thing. You got away,” Morgan said. “Can you tell us anything about your captor?”

Chelsea stared down at her knees. “He wanted to train me. To teach me to be submissive. If I obeyed, he fed me. If I didn’t, he punished me.”

“What did he look like?” Morgan asked.

“He wore a mask, so I didn’t see his face,” Chelsea’s brows lowered. She gave them a very basic description of an average-size, white male. No distinguishing accent. “He was strong.”

“So probably not too old,” Lance said. “How about visible tattoos or scars?”

Chelsea shook her head.

“Did he wear cologne?” Lance asked.

“I was so scared; I wasn’t paying attention.” Chelsea froze. “Wait. There was a smell. Something . . . sharp. Almost oily.”

“Was it motor oil?” Lance asked.

“No. It wasn’t that strong.” She shuddered. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” She pressed a fist over her mouth, clearly fighting for control.