For someone who doesn’t know much, she sure knows a lot. Except where my Zoey is. “Thanks.”
I climb back in my car and text Jacob.
You talked to Zoey?
Jacob replies quickly. No. Why?
We had a misunderstanding. I’m trying to find her.
Jacob’s reply is just as fast. You check work? Home?
I grip my phone and roll my eyes skyward to pray for patience. Yes. Where else would she go?
Holly’s. The funeral home or her house.
He sends me the address for Holly’s house while I look up the funeral home. Thanks. If you hear from her, let me know.
Jacob sends me back a thumbs-up.
Based on the addresses, I decide to check the funeral home first, but as I drive up, the building is dark and I quickly dismiss it. Further on, Holly’s house is a small one-story with a chain-link fence around the swing set in the yard.
I park haphazardly, hop the fence, and run to the door, trying to restrain myself from banging on it as hard as I’m compelled to do. It’s late and Holly’s daughter is probably asleep, but the longer it takes me to find Zoey, the faster and harder my heart is beating.
How could she have thought I was using her?
How could she dismiss everything we’ve been through and done together that easily?
My knock is slightly less booming, but still frantic.
Holly opens the door holding a fleece robe tightly around her waist, her eyes wide. Until she sees me, and then they narrow sharply.
“What the fuck do you want?” she snarls. If eyes could shoot laser beams, I’d be a pile of ash on her front stoop.
I hold up my hands peacefully when she takes a lunging step toward me. “Wait! Whatever Zoey told you . . . she’s got it all wrong.”
Holly punches my hands as though we’re sparring, combining a right jab and left cross that would make Trey proud. Not listening to me in the slightest, Holly’s still on the warpath.
“Thanks for coming over. It’ll make killing you that much easier. Keep it down, though, because if you wake up my daughter, I’ll bring you back to life just to kill you again.”
The threat should be ridiculous, but with the way Holly’s eyes are flashing, I believe her. “Okay, you can kill me later. But is Zoey here first?”
That’s enough to stop Holly in her tracks and she looks at me in confusion. “No, she left here hours ago. Said she was going home.”
Shaking my head, I inform her, “She’s not there. I just came from there. Work before that. Where else would she go? I’ve got to talk to her.”
My frantic worry breaks through Holly’s anger like nothing else could and she hears what I’m saying. I can’t find Zoey. “Nowhere else. It’s not like she’d go to the beer barn without being forced. Maybe you missed her at home or work?”
The idea that Zoey and I are going around in circles is oddly symbolic. I feel like we’ve been doing that for longer than just tonight. She’s the center of everything, and I’m chasing her, always chasing.
I promise to keep running after her, more than Trey has ever made me run before, until nothing could possibly make Zoey question this thing between us.
“I’ll go back to the morgue and see.”
“Tell her to call me once you find her, or I’ll worry. I want to hear it from her mouth.”
I don’t tell her that I plan to have Zoey’s mouth busy from the instant I see her to the instant she falls asleep in my arms after we make up. I don’t consider the possibility that we don’t make up.
Once I explain, Zoey will understand. She has to.
* * *
The morgue is empty, and instead of my heart racing, it freezes in my chest. I’ve been everywhere. Where could she be? Home, work, home, work. Those are the only places she goes. She said so herself.
I pull out my phone to call Zoey again. I’ve been messaging her all evening with no response, but I don’t know what to do now, where to go next. I push her number in my contacts list and wait. But I hear a subtle buzz. I scan her desk, moving a piece of paper, and find her abandoned phone on the desktop with eleven missed calls from me, and now one from Holly too.
There are also a couple of texts from Jacob warning Zoey that I’m looking for her.
He must’ve sent those from school.
What the hell? She wouldn’t leave without her phone. Maybe she’s here somewhere, hopefully just running to the bathroom and not hiding from me.
But as I stand in the cold room, suspicion worms its way through me and I look around a bit more. The refrigerator door is cracked open.
“Zo?” I say, pulling the door wide. Inside, I see an overturned mop bucket. I bend down to touch the mess of bleachy water to find it’s cooled to refrigerator temperature.
It’s been here a while, way longer than it would’ve taken her to get something to clean it up if she’d accidentally spilled.
Something is wrong. She is here, her phone tells me that, but she’s not here.
“Zoey!” I shout, but only my voice echoes back to me without an answer from her.
My gut drops, and with wild eyes, I scan the refrigerator, even though the space is small enough that I’d see her if she were in here, and then the morgue, looking under the tables.
In the hallway, I shout again, “Zoey!”
There are a couple of doors, but they’re both locked, and I run for the stairs as an inexplicable panic begins to fill my veins. Halfway up the stairs, Alver rounds the corner of the landing and shuffles to a stop.
“What are you yelling for? Ain’t no need for all that racket,” he says grumpily.
I grab him by his shirt, lifting his frail body to push him against the wall. “What did you do to her? Where’s Zoey?”
His eyes are frantic, looking left and right for a way out as he blusters, “What’re you talking about, asshole? Put me down!”
From scant inches away, I snarl, “Where. Is. She?”
Realizing the only way out of this situation is to answer the fucking question, he finds the ability to focus. “I don’t know,” he says, trying to shrug. “Haven’t seen DDG since early this afternoon. She’s not here, thank the good Lord for small miracles.”
“She is. Or was. Her phone’s on her desk and the mop bucket is spilled in the fridge.”
Alver’s mouth gapes dumbly. “Huh? Well, I don’t know. I ain’t seen her.”
I drop him to his feet, not caring if he catches himself. Because the fucked-up thing is, I believe him.
“Where’s Sheriff Barnes?” I bark.
“Gone for the night. It’s late,” he informs me as if I don’t know exactly how late at night it is. “Zoey’s probably skulking about somewhere. Or over at the funeral home with her weird friend.” Now that I don’t have him pressed up against the wall, Alver is feeling brave again.
“Call Barnes. Now.”
“I am not waking up the sheriff because you lost your little girlfriend,” he says dismissively. “Hell, you should be thanking your lucky stars you ain’t dead yet from hanging out with that one.”
I loom over him, backing him into the wall again. “Call Barnes. Tell him Zoey is missing.”
An impossibly long ten minutes later, Sheriff Barnes comes stomping into the morgue. His hair is disheveled, his untucked shirt is buttoned crookedly, and his face is thunderous.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Alver tries to answer, “This asshole came in here threatening me, demanding—”
But Sheriff Barnes isn’t looking at Alver. He’s looking at me, so I speak right over Alver’s blustering explanation.
“Zoey’s missing. I’ve been trying to track her down since we talked. She’s not home, not at Holly’s, not at the funeral home, and not with Jacob. Her phone is here and the mop bucket is spilled in the refrigerator. I think there was a struggle.” I swallow thickly. “I think somebody took her, Sheriff.”
“Took her? Who?”
My mind’s
been whirling on that for the whole ten minutes since Alver made that call, and I can only come up with one answer. “Yvette Horne.”
Alver snorts out derisively. “That pretty little thing? She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
If only he knew what that ‘pretty little thing’ was capable of. I am, and so is Sheriff Barnes. Yvette Horne killed her husband and Zoey prevented her from getting the money she felt entitled to. “When Yvette left court today, she said, ‘This isn’t over.’ I thought it was an empty threat, but now . . .”
Barnes’s jaw clenches, his own keen mind processing through the information he’s been presented with. He steps around me to look in the refrigerator himself. I looked over every inch. There’s nothing else to find unless Zoey has magically appeared from an alternative universe since I last looked in there.
Unfortunately, that hasn’t happened, and Sheriff Barnes reaches for the radio at his shoulder.
“This is Sheriff Jeff Barnes. I need every officer in Williamson County to report for duty STAT. We have a missing person.” He pauses, the next words hard for him to say and harder for me to hear. “Zoey Walker is missing, foul play is suspected. I repeat, All Points Bulletin for Zoey Walker. We need to find her, boys. Someone took one of our own. Over.”
He releases the button, and there’s a moment of static before someone replies, “This is Smith. On it, Sheriff.”
Another voice says, “Parker here. We’ll find her, sir.”
He blinks, though I don’t think a man like him cries—at least not in the middle of an investigation—and pushes the button again, “Kenny?”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“I need you to go by Yvette Horne’s house. She’s our number-one suspect and you’re closest. Be careful, son. Over.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence descends for a moment as the chill of the room seeps into my bones. Zoey is really missing.
“Barnes?”
It’s only one word, but he hears everything I have tied up in it. . . my plea for help, my promise to do whatever it takes to get Zoey back, and most of all, my prayers that she is unharmed.
“I know, kid. Come upstairs and let me show you how a real investigation is done.”
Chapter 25
Zoey
A disgusting smell assails my nostrils, and that’s saying something because I have smelled some rank stuff before. Decomposition has its own aroma, unlike no other. Thankfully, what I smell now isn’t that, but rather . . . ammonia.
Stale and sharp . . . urine.
My nose crinkles, and I try breathing through my mouth instead, an old trick Grandpa taught me when I first started working by his side. My eyes flutter as I try to blink, but it’s just as dark as before when I manage to force them open. I’m lying down and can feel that I’m enclosed.
My first thought is that I’ve been buried alive, and I panic, my heart beating out of my chest as I thrash and flail, screaming in terror. My foot kicks something solid and metal, and I cry out, pulling my knee to my chest sharply.
“Ow!” It hurts like a bitch, tears instantly sprouting, but it does stop my panic attack enough that my surroundings start to take shape. Mostly, the hum of road noise comes to me.
I’m in . . . a trunk?
What happened?
I try to remember. There was court . . . and Holly’s . . . and the morgue. I was mopping. Is that why I’m wet?
Or is the urine my own?
No, not mine because now that I’m thinking about it, I could really pee, but this doesn’t seem to be the time nor place.
Think, Zoey. Mopping and then what? How did I go from the morgue to a trunk?
In a flash, I remember . . . something. A feeling of not being alone, yelling at Jacob.
But it wasn’t Jacob. I know that.
Who was it?
A sharp pain lances through my skull as I try to remember, and I hiss.
Okay, breathe, Zoey. If you can’t go back, figure out what’s happening now.
Blindly, I feel around—stinky carpet, hard metal framing, a few wires.
Wait, what’s that?
Behind my leg, I feel something big and squishy. I twist and bend, trying to get my hand down to grab it.
“C’mon, Zoey. Stretch like you’ve never stretched before. Pretend you’re at yoga . . .” Grunt. “Or one of those bendy people who can do a backbend without cracking a bone.”
The pep talk still sucks, but as I flick my fingers against what I can now feel is nylon, I finally get a grip on it and pull it up. It’s a . . . bag?
“Please let there be a weapon inside,” I pray as I find the zipper. Inside the bag, I don’t find the metal of a gun or the plastic of a Taser, but rather fabric, wet and smelly with a new layer of stink that adds to the urine grossness still surrounding me despite becoming accustomed to it.
“Ugh,” I groan, wiping the wetness on my scrub pants. Not finding anything I can weaponize, I tune in to what’s happening outside the car.
Road noise . . . a speed bump or . . . Wait. That was a railroad track.
Immediately afterward, we swerve left.
I close my eyes to trace the railroad line through Williamson County.
What if you’re not in Williamson County anymore?
The thought sends ice through my body, raising goosebumps along my arms. It’s entirely possible I’m somewhere well beyond county lines because I have no idea how long I was unconscious.
But I have to believe that railroad is the one I’m familiar with because the alternative is too terrifying.
Okay, Zoey. Think. Railroad track crossing and then a left swerve.
It hits me . . . a pothole. At the Cameron Oaks crossing, there’s a huge pothole that’s been there for years. People who live out here in Williamson County know that and swerve without giving it a second thought.
Good job, Zo. Now you know where you are and that it’s a local driving. What else?
With an idea of where I am, I can close my eyes and visualize the road. We turn right on Redbud, go straight for a bit, and then another right on Laverne.
Wait, no. Not Laverne, I think it was Mayfield Lane.
What’s out here?
Before I can remember, we’re bumping along the road, and I bounce around the trunk wildly.
I cover my head with my hands for protection, letting my elbows and knees take the brunt of the impacts as I hit the unforgiving metal again and again.
“Aw . . . ugh . . . ow!”
The car stops suddenly, and I roll forward and then back at the abruptness. Quieting, I listen for any clue. I hear a loud creak and then a clang. I know that sound, any country person does . . . it’s a gate swinging open, the chain and lock jangling against the metal of the pole fence. The car door slams and I’m moving again.
I remember advice I heard once, from where I don’t know, that said ‘don’t let them take you to a secondary location’. It’s way too late for that, so what’s my next option?
Fight like hell, Zoey. Whatever happens, when that trunk opens, you need to be ready to fight and run.
I swallow down the bile that threatens to come up at the idea of what I might be fighting against and running from and take slow, deep breaths to oxygenate my blood for both fight and flight. I take a firm grip on the bag because while it doesn’t have any traditional weapons, it’s all I have, and I wait.
The car stops once more, and I freeze, listening for steps to come around to the trunk.
Ready? Three, two, one . . . nothing happens and I don’t move. Just when I think I’ve been forgotten, the lid opens, swinging up. It’s still dark, but with my eyes adjusted to the inside of the trunk, I can see the moonlit silhouette of my kidnapper. They’re smaller than I expected somehow, my fear making them seem larger than life in my mind.
A veritable Sasquatch of horror, but this shadow is basically my size or even smaller. I throw the bag with a yell of fury, scrambling out of the trunk as quickly as I can.
I push past t
he shadow and run, screaming as loud as I can, “Help! Help! Help!”
I know I only have moments before the kidnapper is hot on my heels. What I’m not expecting is the voice that yells, “Get her!”
That’s got to be the kidnapper, but who is she talking to? She? Yes, definitely a woman. Heavy footsteps come up behind me, faster than I could hope to escape, but I try to dodge and zig zag. Loud breath steams on my neck, and I know my chance at flight is gone.
I spin suddenly, planting one foot and bringing up the other knee toward my pursuer. I’m hoping to hit gut, or maybe a good ball shot that would drop him to his knees. What I find is a wall of iron-hardened muscle that hurts my knee more than the other way around.
I am rewarded with a deep, guttural grunt, though. “Fuck. Be still so I don’t have to hurt you.”
I must be really losing it because I snort, a derisive laugh coming out of my nose instead of my mouth.
He doesn’t want to hurt me after kidnapping me and bouncing my unconscious body around in the trunk?
“Fuck you, fucker!” Not an original or creative statement, but at least I’m loud, though I’m not sure there’s anyone to hear me. But hopefully, my voice will carry over the fields far enough away that someone will hear. I take a big inhale to scream again, but it’s forced out of me when I’m tackled to the ground. “Oof.”
A heavy mass sits firmly on my back, and I squirm and wiggle, kicking and clawing to get away. “Damn it! Quit moving, bro!”
Bro? I’m obviously not a bro.
My arms are wrenched behind my back, my wrists clasped tight in one large, strong hand, and I’m yanked unceremoniously to my feet. “Come on.”
I’m jerkily marched back toward the car, losing any ground I made with my attempt at running. When we get back, I see who I threw the bag at, because the car headlights are beaming right on her like spotlights. “Yvette.”
She seems put off by my lack of surprise, or maybe I’m just too shocked to sound that way. “Well, who’d you expect? The Queen of England?”
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