“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.

No doubt she’d been up late reviewing notes on the case as well. And they’d split the job of writing up the reports on yesterday’s interviews. With her grandfather not able to drive, taxiing Sophie to preschool and Gianna to dialysis also fell on her shoulders.

She raised her coffee cup to her lips and drank deeply.

“Are you all right?” Lance asked.

“Sophie had a night terror.”

“What is a night terror?”

“She was thrashing around and screaming in her sleep.”

“Oh, hell.”

“Yes. ‘Hell’ sums up my night perfectly.” Morgan tilted her head back and drained her mug. She crossed the room to the Keurig machine on her credenza. Setting her mug under the spout, she plugged in a pod and pressed the “On” button. “She woke the whole family. I had to bring her into my room for the rest of the night. Sharing a bed with Sophie is like sleeping with an octopus on Red Bull.”

Sophie was an unpredictable, sensitive, out-of-the-box child. She experienced life with an emotional meter permanently set to high. She loved powerfully and without reservation. And held a grudge, like the one aimed at Lance for claiming some of her mother’s attention, with the steadfastness of a SWAT sniper locked on a target.

“Poor kid. She must have been a mess,” Lance said.

“Not at all.” Morgan drummed her fingers on the credenza as the coffeemaker gurgled. “A night terror isn’t the same thing as a nightmare. She slept through the whole thing and woke up in a great mood surprised to be in bed with me.”

A smile tugged at Lance’s mouth. “Then poor you.”

Morgan sighed. “Night terrors are named appropriately. It was terrifying to watch. I’ve been awake since three.”

“Morning,” Sharp said as he walked in, drawing up as he scanned her face. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” Morgan laughed. She lifted her refilled mug and inhaled, her eyes closing in a way that was almost sensual.

“I told you that stuff was bad for you.” Sharp lifted his mug. Large red letters on the black ceramic read PRIVATE DICK. It had been a gift from his cop buddies when he’d retired from the force and opened the investigation agency. “Are you sure I can’t replace that poison with organic tea and a protein shake?”

Morgan clutched her cup closer, protecting it like a starving wolf standing over a fresh kill. “Hands off the coffee.”

Sharp backed away, shaking his head. “Caffeine overloads the adrenal system. In the long run, you’ll end up more fatigued. Ask Lance.”

“Lance is not getting in the middle.” Lance turned to face the whiteboard.

Sharp walked up to stand next to him. “Are we still waiting on an ID of the body?”

“I just talked to the sheriff,” Morgan said. “The woman’s face and hands were badly damaged by animal activity, and her lower jaw is missing. The medical examiner was going to start on the autopsy first thing this morning. He has Chelsea’s medical and dental records. If it’s not Chelsea, he should be able to rule her out, even if he can’t identify the body.”

An autopsy could take anywhere from two to four hours. Difficult and damaged remains complicated the process. A preliminary report wouldn’t be ready until the next morning, but the county ME would not leave the Clark family hanging any longer than necessary. If he could rule out Chelsea, he’d let them know ASAP.

“The ME likes to get an early start,” Lance said. “We’ll hear from him in the next couple of hours.”