The Runaway

by Lisa Childs

  So the sheriff hadn’t even been able to question anyone. Yet.

  With Lawrence’s help, he would get material witness warrants if necessary and make the guests talk to him. Not that he wanted to go to the judge again for anything . . .

  But he had to find Genevieve. And he damn well wanted to find her alive—or Rosemary might do what he suspected she’d tried earlier. She might jump—just as his wife had jumped months ago.

  He flinched as he remembered that moment he’d looked over the cliff. She hadn’t been dangling off the side like Whittaker Lawrence had found Rosemary. She hadn’t been screaming for help.

  Deacon had been too late to save her. Her body had lain, broken, on the rocky shore. But he’d lost her long before that day; he’d been too late long before then, long before she’d jumped.

  Had Rosemary?

  She stood now in the foyer next to Whittaker, who kept an arm protectively or possessively wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was chafed red from the wind and cold, her sweater torn in a few places from her ordeal earlier that day.

  “What are you doing here yet?” he asked. “I thought you would go home.” He glared at her male companion. “Or to the hospital.” Maybe a mental hospital—a real one, not this weird treatment center.

  “I knew Whit was getting you that search warrant,” she said, “and I want to help you look for her.”

  “Since you work here, you must have already checked out this building,” he said. “You know I didn’t find any sign of her in here.”

  “Out there then,” she said. “I want to help you search the grounds.”

  “We all do,” Lawrence chimed in.

  Deacon shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. Surely, you both have to realize that. You could have fallen to your deaths earlier today.”

  “I didn’t fall,” Rosemary replied, her body stiff with defensiveness.

  His wife had gotten like that, too—every time he’d confronted her. About her cheating, about her mental state, about how she’d treated Holly ...

  Maybe he had pushed her—just like nearly everybody believed he had. He just hadn’t done it physically.

  “Somebody shoved me,” she insisted.

  He nodded. “All the more reason you can’t be out there searching,” he said. “I put together my own team. Deputies and locals who know the island, who’ve helped me search before.” Like the day they’d all searched for his wife.

  He only hoped they wouldn’t find Genevieve like they had found her. Too damn late ...

  At least Whittaker Lawrence had managed to save Rosemary earlier. But if Deacon hadn’t been heading to his vehicle and overheard the screams, they might have both tumbled down to their deaths. He’d searched that area after they’d left for the hospital, but the wind and snow had hidden any signs of a struggle if there had been one.

  So who knew if she’d really been shoved? Even Rosemary herself admitted she hadn’t seen anyone. But her brake line had been cut. And her car had been hit ...

  Had someone else been responsible for those things, though? Or had she staged everything with the intention of getting him to investigate her daughter’s disappearance?

  He didn’t trust her. Hell, he didn’t trust anyone. Not anymore ...

  “With the snow and the wind chill, I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to search,” he said. “So you should return to the boardinghouse.” He didn’t want her here in case he did find something.

  In case he did find a body ...

  “I’m not leaving,” Rosemary said.

  The judge slid an arm around her shoulders. “Then I’m staying, too.”

  He could have argued with them, could have threatened them with a charge of interfering with an investigation. But hell, Lawrence was a judge, so he held his silence, just shrugged and walked out the open foyer doors to join the team that had gathered in the parking lot.

  Margaret had put together a grid of the property. He assigned each searcher four of the grids, including himself—and he knew which ones to take, the ones where he’d found Whit and Rosemary earlier and the one where he’d found his wife. Because maybe Genevieve hadn’t been running away from the hall. Maybe she’d been running away from everything—just as his wife had been.

  He assigned Warren the ones closest to the hall, the ones where he’d already searched himself. He had good reason not to trust that deputy—since his last name was Cooke.

  Before his team headed out, each one picked up a walkie-talkie. “Keep in touch,” he advised. “We don’t want to lose anyone else out there.” With the way the wind and snow had picked up, it was a possibility. He could have postponed the search but knowing now that none of her friends had heard from Genevieve had an urgency racing through him. This was the last place she’d been seen.

  The last place anyone had seen her.

  Searching the property was probably the best chance of finding her. The areas he was searching didn’t offer any shelter for someone to hide and survive, though. The ravines on the property and the cliffs on the ocean side offered no protection from the elements.

  He’d dressed for the weather in a heavy snowsuit with a ski mask pulled over his head. Despite his precautions the wind cut through him, chilled him. He should have postponed the search, but he wanted to help Rosemary. Hell, he’d been interested in her, but it was clear that if she’d ever had any interest in him, she didn’t now. Those damn rumors . . .

  They’d destroyed his life. He was certain to lose the next election. But he’d already lost something far more important than his job: He’d lost his daughter. She lived with him—when she wasn’t running away to one of her friends. But she hated him.

  Fortunately, he’d always found her alive. He had to find Genevieve the same way—for her mother’s sake as well as for hers. But if he found her out there, on the cliffs or in the ravines, he wasn’t going to find her the way he wanted to....

  As he headed down the steep bank of the ravine, his boots sank deep into the snow. The wind had blown so much into the ravine that it was deeper here than anywhere else. If there was a body beneath this, he probably wouldn’t find it until spring, which was a couple of months away yet. Rosemary couldn’t wait a couple of months.

  A cry rang out suddenly. His blood chilled. Unlike earlier, this cry wasn’t human. It was the forlorn cry of a coyote. Usually they ran from humans, but it had been so cold that food would have been scarce. So he drew his weapon ... just in case.

  In a pack, they got brave—just like humans. Another cry echoed the first, as if they were circling him. One shot would probably send them running. But it might bring others running toward him, and he didn’t need human help. He could handle some damn coyotes on his own.

  He continued trudging through the snow. The bottom of the ravine had the deepest snowfall, so deep that he had to use his free hand to grab pine boughs and pull himself out of it. Branches snapped and broke off. But his weren’t the only broken branches. Some other ones had been snapped off, too, leaving sharp ends protruding from the trunk. The broken off pieces were gone now, buried beneath the snow—probably along with whatever or whoever had caused them to snap off.

  Had someone come running through here? Running away from what? The manor? Or from someone?

  The coyotes howled now. What the hell were they doing out already? It wasn’t dark yet. He glanced around, looking for them, yet could see nothing. They must have been hiding in the trees and brush. But as he looked, he noticed the blood sprayed across the snow above him.

  Son of a bitch ...

  He’d found something.

  Maybe it was just a deer. Maybe that was why the coyotes were howling. Maybe they were trying to scare him away from their fresh kill. But as he approached, he saw no hooves, no fur . . .

  There was hair though. Long, tangled blond hair.

  Son of a bitch ...

  He’d found a body. It was only partially exposed from the snow with dirt and dead leaves caked on it, too, as if
it had been buried. Maybe the coyotes had dragged it out of a shallow grave. Dread gripping him, he approached slowly. His grip tightened on his gun as a snarl emanated from somewhere close.

  Oh, hell . . .

  He was going to need help anyway—to get the body out of the ravine. To process the scene ...

  So he raised his barrel into the air and fired. The shot was ear-piercing and echoed throughout the ravine. A yip echoed it, too, and branches rustled as the coyotes scattered, abandoning their kill.

  But no, it couldn’t be their kill, or it wouldn’t have been buried like it must have been. Like she must have been ...

  He stepped closer to the body, which lay facedown. The dirty and torn material left on it appeared to be some kind of gown, like a hospital gown. Even though he knew he shouldn’t contaminate the scene, he reached out with a gloved hand and rolled the body slightly.

  Bile rose up the back of his throat as revulsion gripped him. The face was gone. Hell, the flesh was gone from everything that had been exposed from the snow and dirt. The coyotes had picked it nearly to the bone.

  He gagged and swallowed hard, fighting to not throw up. Not that he had to worry much about contaminating the scene; the coyotes had already done that. He wasn’t sure the coroner would even be able to determine cause of death with the condition of the corpse.

  As for identity ...

  It had to be Genevieve Walcott. Nobody else had been reported missing on the island. Not since the last time he’d chased down his teenage runaway. Genevieve had probably just been running away as well and must have fallen. Tumbling down the steep slope could have been why her body was covered in so much dirt and leaves. Maybe she hadn’t been buried, just hurt in the fall.

  Or worse ...

  And the dirt, leaves, and snow had covered her until the hungry coyotes had found and partially uncovered her.

  * * *

  Panic pressed down on Rosemary’s heart and lungs. “What was that?” she asked again about the noise they’d heard moments before. If she’d been in the city, she would have guessed that a car had misfired. Or something else ...

  “Gunshot,” Whit said, his brow furrowing beneath a lock of dark blond hair. He continued to pace the conservatory like Rosemary had before exhaustion, more from panic than her earlier close call, had weighed too heavily on her and she’d dropped into one of the chairs around the table.

  “Why would one of the searchers fire a weapon?” Rosemary asked. “Do you think they were attacked by whoever pushed me earlier?”

  “A hunter could have fired it.”

  “Is it hunting season?” Rosemary asked. “And if so, why would someone be shooting at animals so close to people searching the area?”

  Whit cursed, and Rosemary knew she was right. A hunter hadn’t fired that shot; he or she wouldn’t have risked a human life over a kill unless they were a killer. She stood up. “I’m going to check with the deputy in the lobby.”

  She had to find out what that noise had been, so she rushed out of the conservatory and down the hall. Whit followed her, as if he didn’t trust her out of his sight now.

  The female deputy glanced over at her, then quickly looked away.

  Panic pressed harder on Rosemary’s chest. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  The deputy shook her head.

  “We heard a shot,” Whit said. He must have noticed the woman’s reaction to Rosemary, too, because he slid his arm around her—offering her comfort she hoped like hell she didn’t need.

  “Did they find her?” she asked the woman.

  The deputy lowered her chin nearly to her chest, as if desperately trying to avoid meeting Rosemary’s gaze. “I can’t tell you about the investigation, Ms. Tulle. You’ll have to wait for the sheriff.”

  You’ll want to wait for the sheriff. . . .

  That was what she meant. “He has something to tell me,” she surmised. “He found something.”

  If Genevieve had been found alive, wouldn’t the woman have been able to share that—wouldn’t she have looked happier or relieved instead of just sorry? The panic was crushing now, so much so that she could barely draw a breath into her lungs. As she had earlier in the hypnosis room, she felt as though she was suffocating. She needed air. Wriggling free of Whit’s one-armed embrace, she rushed toward the foyer doors, which opened to a blast of cold wind.

  It struck her face like a bucket of ice water. She blinked against the chill and the swirling flakes of snow. As her vision cleared, she noticed the van that had just pulled into the parking lot.

  BANE MEDICAL EXAMINER was emblazoned across the side panel. Not an ambulance. The body they’d found was dead.

  “Damn it!” a deep voice remarked.

  It wasn’t Whit even though he’d followed her out. She felt his presence behind her. The man who spoke to her stood in front of her. She wouldn’t have recognized him beneath his snow-encrusted ski mask if he hadn’t spoken.

  “Did you find her?” Rosemary asked, her heart pounding madly as she waited for his response.

  “I don’t know,” the sheriff said.

  “But you found something,” Whit surmised, and once again his arm slid around Rosemary.

  She barely felt it now. She was frozen with dread. With fear ...

  She felt as if she was dangling from that cliff all over again. And whatever the sheriff said would send her spiraling down to the rocky shore.

  “I found a body,” he said. “A female. I can’t confirm her identity.”

  “Let me see her,” Rosemary said.

  He shook his head. “No. You can’t . . . not like this . . .”

  Her stomach pitched with dread. “Like what?”

  His throat moved as if he was struggling to swallow. Then he had to clear it with a cough before replying, “Coyotes got ahold of the body.”

  Her legs trembled and nearly folded beneath her. If not for Whit wrapped nearly around her, she might have slipped to the ground. She locked her knees and steadied herself, though. “I have a photo of her.”

  “You showed me,” the sheriff reminded her. She had done that when he’d gone to the hospital with her. “And I have a copy of her driver’s license picture. I can’t identify her either. It’s going to take DNA testing. I’ll need to contact your parents to get something of hers.”

  “Me,” Rosemary said. “Compare her DNA to mine. If it’s Genevieve, there’ll be a familial match.”

  He nodded. “Okay. But it’s going to take a while to run the test and have confirmation. It’s not like on TV—it’s not that fast.”

  She nodded now. “I know.”

  “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up that it won’t match,” he warned her. “Nobody else has been reported missing on the island.”

  “And if she was alive, she would have called me,” Rosemary murmured. If she’d been able ...

  But she hadn’t been able if she’d already been dead. Rosemary had been too late to save her. She waited for the devastation of loss ... but maybe she was just too numb right now to feel anything else.

  “Do you know what happened?” Whit asked. “What the cause of death is?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Coroner will have to determine that, too, if he can.”

  “You couldn’t tell from the scene?” the judge persisted.

  The sheriff shook his head again. “Not much of a scene. Too much snow. Too much . . .” He grimaced, then glanced apologetically at Rosemary. “It could have just been an accident. She fell running away.”

  She shook her head. “But if it was just an accident, why is someone trying to get rid of me? First they nearly ran me off the road. Then my brakes. And today . . .”

  And if Genevieve was already dead, why was someone trying to stop Rosemary from looking for her?

  The sheriff said nothing. Did he doubt that those things had really happened?

  “You told me the brake line was cut,” she reminded him. “You found the evidence.”

  “But I d
on’t know who cut it.”

  “Are you implying that I did?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I don’t know what to think . . .”

  “It’s easier to think this death was an accident,” Rosemary said. “But your daughter told me that running away on this island is no use. Someone always finds you. I want to know who found Genevieve.”

  But if she’d been found, why would she have been left somewhere on the property? Rosemary had too many questions—the biggest was if her daughter was really dead. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—accept that she was. Not yet ...

  * * *

  She was gone. The loss hit him hard every time he walked through the door to the cottage he used on the property. She’d been gone long enough that he should have been used to her absence.

  It wasn’t even as if he missed her all that much. It was what she’d left behind that made Bode ache with her loss—because of what she was missing.

  He needed to go up to the hall, help out Elijah with all the police who were searching the property. At least he’d gotten rid of the damn groundskeeper before the sheriff had arrived. Why hadn’t their security officer caught Teddy Bowers before now, though? Why hadn’t good old Cousin Warren figured out what was going on right under his nose?

  Could he have been the one supplying the kid with the drugs to sell? Bode needed to deal with him, too. But Warren was probably out assisting his other boss with the search. Bode should be helping, too, but before he dealt with all that, he needed a moment alone. He didn’t have very many of them anymore.

  But he wasn’t very far inside his front door before he realized he wasn’t alone. A strange scent caught his attention. Before he could identify it, something swung out and struck him. Pain radiated throughout his skull and everything went black.

  Had she come back?

  But that wasn’t possible ...

  Was it?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It had damn well not been an accident. No matter what the sheriff claimed, Whit didn’t believe that any more than Rosemary had. If it was, why had someone gone after Rosemary? Like the sheriff, he’d had his doubts earlier about her fall off the cliff. But remembering the brake line and her other accident convinced him that someone was trying to stop her from looking for her daughter. The logical reason was so that a crime wouldn’t be discovered and the killer caught.