“So who is she?” Noah wondered again, this time aloud.
He opened his eyes and took another sip of coffee before turning his attention to the computer again. He was relieved to see that the stall had stopped, and a slew of articles were now on display. Unsurprisingly, nearly every one of them had to do with Trey and his business. More than a few related to the man’s old criminal charges, too. Nothing mentioned Elle.
Noah scrolled down the list, searching. No headlines jumped out, but when he clicked over to the third page of articles, something other than words snapped up his attention. It was a photograph. Trey stood in the foreground, one hand at his temple while he seemed to squint into the distance. In the background was a line of people. Their black ensembles gave away the location—a graveside. None of that was what drew Noah in. The thing that made him look closer was the man who stood just to Trey’s left. Not quite behind him, not quite right at his side. He wore a familiar blue uniform, and a small child in a puffy dress held his hand, and Noah knew the guy’s face. It was Detective Stanley.
Curious and slightly uneasy, Noah clicked on the picture. The image filled the screen, and with it came a caption.
Funeral for famed adult film star Tawney O’Malley (stage name, Sassy Sammi) draws eclectic crowd. Shown here: Vancouver-based business mogul Trey Charger and Officer James Stanley.
Noah drew a breath. He read it again. O’Malley. No way was that a coincidence. His eyes dropped to the little girl in the picture. Blond hair. Downturned mouth. And he knew—unequivocally—it was her; the child was Elle. The photo was twenty years old, making her about six years old in the shot. The same age as her daughter was now.
“But what the hell does it mean?” he murmured.
How had she gone from holding hands with the cop to being dragged off in cuffs by him? How had her childhood led her into a relationship with a man who was at least twenty-five years her senior? The answers that floated just under the surface were chilling.
His gaze hung on the photo for several more seconds, as though he might be able to will it into giving him a proper explanation. Of course, nothing changed. No magical article appeared below, and the caption remained the only bit of insight into the truth behind the picture.
“Okay then,” Noah said with a sigh. “Let’s see what else I can find out. Like maybe an idea about where he’d take them.”
Shaking his head in frustration, he typed a new phrase into the search bar. “Properties owned by Trey Charger and subsidiary companies.” His slammed his finger to the enter key, then let out a groan. The search was clearly too broad, the results were far too numerous, and even if he could be sure which listings were current, there was no way to figure out where the man might’ve gone with Elle and Katie.
“Think, Loblaw,” he grumbled to himself. “What’re the options to narrow this down?”
He drummed his fingers on the edge of the keyboard and thought about calling Norah again. Maybe she’d have insight into where a man like Trey Charger would take his two kidnap victims. After all, finding kids was her area of expertise. But before he could even pick up his phone again, the call was rendered unnecessary by Dr. McMillan, who knocked lightly on the door, then called out to Noah.
“Permission to enter?” he asked.
“What kind of person would I be if I kept the man who saved me out of his own office?” Noah swiveled the chair to face him, and he found the doctor’s expression a mix of grim and apologetic. “What’s wrong?”
“Just got an urgent page from our not-so-friendly mutual friend,” the other man said. “He’s up at his place near Wavers Lake, and he’s requesting that I make a house call.”
Wavers Lake. The spot where Trey was hiding out. Wavers Hollow. The town where Noah’s sister was vacationing.
What were the chances that these two pieces of his life would intersect this way?
Noah met the doctor’s eyes. If he’d been the sort of guy who believed that things were meant to be, then this moment would’ve proved it.
CHAPTER 18
Elle wasn’t breathing hard. She hadn’t had to exert herself at all to get where she was now. But her lungs burned anyway, and she wanted to cry. She held it in. More than enough tears had been shed because of Trey over the twelve years she was forced to live with him after her mother had died. She didn’t owe him a single drop more. She just clutched Katie’s shoe a little tighter, loathing the fact that she was going to have to let it go soon and laughing without humor at the misplaced sentimentality, and pressed on.
So far, her slightly haphazard plan was working. She’d left the bedroom door open. Abandoned Detective Stanley in the hall. Sneaked past the small group of men playing cards in the living room. Made her way to the kitchen and its adjacent sunroom. There, she’d pushed open the door, and stepped into the musky early-morning air. She’d paused long enough to very carefully deposit Katie’s hair tie—bright red and strung with three heart-shaped beads—in the center of the concrete pad at the bottom of the steps, then carefully evaded the man smoking in the Jeep and worked her way toward the detective’s car.
Except now that she stood there—exactly where she’d intended to get—she was having the hardest time making herself take the next step. The edges of Katie’s shoe dug into her palm. Her feet dug into the ground. And her heart had already dug itself into the house behind her, simply because that’s where Katie waited. Elle had to fight to keep from getting buried altogether.
Slowly, she uncurled her fingers. Even more slowly, she moved her feet and faced the car. With shaking hands, she drew the stolen keys from her pocket, jammed them into the lock and manually opened it. She set the gun in the console and dropped Katie’s shoe just outside the door. Then, with no regard for the attention she might draw, she turned over the ignition. That they would follow her was inevitable. In fact, it was what she wanted. She just had to make sure they did it exactly the way she wanted them to.
Calculating that it would take about a minute or less for someone to come out when they heard the noise, she stepped on the gas, making the tires spin hard in the mud. Then, figuring it would take more than a minute for someone to connect the dots, she slowed to just above coasting speed, and made her way down the driveway. Maybe the guy in the Jeep would pursue right away. Maybe he would get out of his vehicle and see what the commotion was first. Either way, Elle wanted to make sure they knew which direction she was headed. So at the fork at the end of the driveway, she paused. She counted in a painfully slow way up to fifteen—she didn’t dare go any longer than that—and then she hit the gas pedal with near-to-maximum force while winding the steering wheel to the right at the same time. The tires kicked up a second splash of mucky dirt, and the car skidded out into the road.
Elle exhaled. She glanced in the rearview mirror once, then focused on the winding road in front of her. The twists and turns were enough to require most of her attention. But she also kept one ear cocked, waiting for a sign that Trey’s men were doing as she wanted.
“Come on, ‘bad guys,’” she murmured. “Do your thing.”
And just a minute or two later, she finally heard the rev of an engine. It was in the distance behind her, but the calmness of the post-storm, early-dawn air let it carry clearly to her ears. They were coming. And Elle didn’t know if she was relieved or just even more petrified. Doubt pricked at her.
What if this doesn’t work? her subconscious nagged. What if you can’t get back to Katie in time? What if Trey figures out that it’s all a ploy?
Her hands tightened on the wheel. She couldn’t afford to give in now. She concentrated on the drive, and after just another few seconds, she spied the first landmark through the front windshield. It was an old-fashioned mailbox painted to look like a cow that belonged to the next cabin along the road, and it eased the pressure in Elle’s chest just enough. She’d made it a third of the way to her planned turnoff. Her foot
pressed down harder, and her eyes dropped to the speedometer. She accelerated until the numbers hovered right above the speed limit, where she wanted it. Not fast enough to draw attention from any possible onlookers, not slow enough that Trey’s men would immediately catch up. Yes, there was a great possibility that her pursuers would come in at a higher speed. But they wouldn’t let themselves come under suspicion, either. Incautious men didn’t last long around Trey.
Reassuring herself with that dark-edged thought, Elle concentrated on the windshield once again. She was surprised—and relieved—to see that the sun had come up enough that the next anticipated feature was already in view. This one was a beat-up, rusted-out truck that had been hoisted onto stilts. There was a sign beneath the display, too. And even though it was illegible now, Elle knew that at some point it had announced the location of Bill’s Brake and Muffler, a homebased garage business set back on the property. And the pressure in her chest eased further as she drove past it. She had to force her foot not to drop all the way to the floor in anticipation.
One more driveway. Just one more.
But as she approached another bend in the road, she was forced to speed up. Because the sound of a surging engine climbed through the air yet again. And this time it was far too close.
Instinctively, Elle slammed her shoe to the pedal and held on tightly as she spun the wheel and took the corner far too fast. But as firm as her grip was, it wasn’t quite enough. The car fishtailed. Then it shuddered, and she could feel the passenger side wheels lift under her body. Her shoulder smashed into the door. Her head cracked against the window. And her heart didn’t just jump into her throat; it lodged itself between her uvula and tongue, and it cut off her ability to draw breath. But the car didn’t care how scared she was, or how many stars appeared behind her eyes. It just continued its wild, shuddering, two-tired bounce. And still she couldn’t breathe.
The world went from star-speckled unpleasantness to near darkness. The road disappeared in a murky blur, and Elle braced for impact. For a flip. For the dark to become utter blackness instead. She closed her eyes in anticipation, letting a vision of Katie fill her mind, praying that somehow, someway, the little girl would be saved. A miracle. That’s what she needed. And she was so busy waiting for it, that she almost didn’t notice when it happened.
One second, centrifugal force pressed her to the door. The next she felt like she was in freefall. Then she clued in. The freefall was just a release. The pressure was gone. The block in her throat was gone, and the car was still. Too still.
Her eyes opened. Sight and air rushed in together. The car had finished its careening, her foot was on the brake and the sky was a blaze of red, yellow and orange. Momentarily stunned, Elle blinked. And the rapid flutter cleared her vision. Just ahead was the marker she was looking for—a white picket fence with a yellow gate. But she didn’t have time to stop and feel relief. The pursuing engine was even closer now, the audible RPMs approaching with the ferocity of a fire-breathing dragon.
Shaking off the last of her daze and the encroaching, full-body stiffness that came alongside her adrenaline, Elle took hold of the wheel once more. And again, she pushed her sole down to the gas pedal. But the car stuttered. Once. Twice. And it cut out.
Elle’s fear hollered a warning in her head, and it was even louder than her pursuer’s vehicle.
“Please,” she said under her breath. “Not now.”
She flicked the ignition off. She said a three-second prayer. The she turned the key again and gave the gas another tap. And after another brief protest, the vehicle lurched forward.
“Thank God,” she murmured.
Not daring to gun it again, Elle kept her approach steady. It was an achingly slow approach. But after an hour-long forty-five seconds, she finally reached the fence. The gate was open, as it usually was, and Elle guided the car through it, then down the slight slope of the driveway. Now at a crawl, she eased her way past the tiny farmhouse, then around behind the dilapidated barn. She barely had time to turn the car off before the noise of the fast-moving engine shook the air.
Elle held her breath.
She waited.
She wondered what she would do if it turned her way and followed.
She begged the universe not to let that happen.
The sound spiraled higher, then came to a crescendo.
And it passed.
Elle’s entire body sagged with relief, and she closed her eyes for just a moment, letting the relief reign. But under that, more than a hint of doubt slipped in. What if the owner of this place had sold? Or passed? What if whoever lived there now simply called the police, and what if that call brought in Detective Stanley’s very unimpressed cohorts?
And why didn’t I consider any of that before?
But when Elle opened her eyes again, it was a familiar figure who filled her vision. He looked to be about a hundred years old as he hobbled toward her. But then again, he’d looked that way all those years ago, too. A straggly gray ponytail hung down to his shoulders, and his wizened frame seemed dependent on the cane in his hand. But his gaze was sharp. Just as it had been when Elle last stumbled onto his property, needing a place to hide while Trey went on a quiet rampage trying to find her. As she swung the door open and climbed out, tears of remembered gratitude pricked at her eyes. And if she hadn’t had to grip the door to keep from stumbling, and her legs hadn’t burned like she’d just run a marathon rather than taken a ten-minute drive, she might’ve launched herself at the man in spite of his frailness.
Instead, she had to settle for an emotion-laden greeting. “Hi, Mr. Quincy. It’s good to see you again.”
He eyed her up and down. “Mirabella. I could never decide if that son-of-a-you-know-what had actually killed you, or if you’d just gotten away with faking your own death.”
A quavering laugh cut through Elle’s tears. “Well. As you can see…”
“Indeed. You’re not dead at all.” The old man paused. “He had a funeral for you, you know.”
Her heart squeezed unpleasantly. “I know.”
“I went.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Elle wanted to laugh again—how bizarre was it to thank someone for attending your phony funeral? But the amusement was overridden by the way Mr. Quincy’s attention was roaming over her appearance again.
“Take it that he’s caught up to that fact that you’re alive?” he asked, his voice roughened with more than age.
“He never believed I wasn’t,” she admitted.
“He really is a son-of-you-know-what, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So, then. You here to get your room back? Gonna give me another speech about how helping you is gonna endanger my life, or are you gonna get straight to telling me what you need?”
Elle swallowed as her fear rose to the surface again, and she forced a lighter tone. “I guess that depends. Do you remember my speech from a decade ago?”
Clearly not buying the pretended breeziness of her tone, the old man lifted a craggy eyebrow. “A decade ago, Mirabella? According to my calendar, it was only eight years, one month, and two days ago.”
Guessing she had her answer about his ability to recall details, Elle nodded. “I don’t need anywhere to hide today, Mr. Quincy. I was just wondering if you still have the dirt bike that belonged to your granddaughter. The one with the special muffler you put on so as not to annoy the neighbors.”
If the question surprised the well-wrinkled man, he didn’t show it. “Yup. Keep it maintained, just in case, too. But as I remember it, you only spent time on it that one summer. When you fell off and banged up your knee, you were too afraid of what would happen if Trey found out.”
Elle nodded. “That’s right. But it was exhilarating. I felt freer on that bike than I had in years. So one of the first things I did whe
n I escaped was to learn to ride properly.”
“You gonna bring it back?”
“I hope so.”
Without asking any other questions, he shifted his cane a little, then held out his hand. “All right. Give me the keys to your car. I can find a place to ditch it, or I can hold on to it until you want it back. And you can help yourself to the bike. It’s in the barn, like always.”
Wincing, Elle didn’t drop the keys into his outstretched palm right away. “I should probably tell you that this car belongs to a police detective.”
Mr. Quincy didn’t flinch. “Dump it in the lake, then?”
She exhaled. “I might need it later.”
“Or I could give you a ride wherever you need to be. Got a well-covered truck bed, and a whole lot of time on my hands.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
He shrugged. “Say, ‘Sure, Mr. Quincy. That’s a lovely idea.’”
Now Elle did laugh, even if it was a little tremulous. “Sure, Mr. Quincy. That’s a lovely idea.”
He gave her a wink, and she handed over the keys. Or she started to, anyway. Because the old man closed his fingers on her with surprising strength, then held on for a moment as he spoke again.
“I’ve thought about you a lot over the last eight years,” he said. “Wondered if there was more I could’ve done. Felt guilty in the moments where I believed he’d killed you. Woke me in the night more than a few times, and I’m unreasonably glad to know that you made it out. So do me a dang favor, and try to stay safe.”
Elle’s throat scratched, and she had to clear it before she could answer. “I will. I promise.”
Harlequin Romantic Suspense January 2021 Page 88