“Try the driver.”
As the image enlarged, something niggled at Sean’s memory.
The shape of the man’s face. The slope of his jaw. Something about him scraped at recognition.
Sean shifted to glance toward Brian, clipped his shoulder again, and hissed through his teeth.
Then it clicked. His pulse surged, and his gaze snapped back to the monitor as the image sharpened and the driver’s features slid into focus.
Sean’s stomach dropped. “Damn it! Can you print that?”
“Yeah.”
The printer whirred, and those few seconds stretched forever. The moment the page cleared the machine, Sean snatched it free and jumped from the van, ignoring the sharp protest from his shoulder.
The others were waiting, and he turned to Matt. “Have a deputy get names and a phone number for these guys. They’ll get their exclusive, but not before we get Grace back and nail this psycho.”
His glare shifted to the second cameraman. “Follow us, and you get nothing. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sean spun and yanked open the back door to Grace’s clinic. Cutting through the building was faster than circling the block to his car. Tim was still inside, locking up, but Sean barely spared him a glance as he charged through.
Brian was right behind him, calling his name. The moment they burst through the front door, his brother grabbed his arm. “You going to tell me who the hell that is and where we’re going?”
Sean yanked open the Mustang’s driver-side door and met Brian’s stare. “We’re going to pay a visit to a pharmacist.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Grace surfaced through layers of heavy fog into absolute silence. For a few disoriented seconds, she lay still, her thoughts sluggish and disconnected. Her mouth felt dry enough to crack, and a dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. The pounding in her head reminded her of the rare mornings after one too many glasses of wine, though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hungover.
What on earth did I drink last night? And how much?
The thought barely formed before unease prickled through her.
She tried to roll onto her side and reach for her pillow, but her body refused to cooperate. Her arms wouldn’t move. Neither would her legs.
A cold rush of awareness cut through the haze—this wasn’t her bed. She was lying on a hard table.
Her breath caught as panic surged. She jerked against whatever held her, and a rope chafing her ankles and wrists answered her struggle.
No!
Her pulse slammed against her throat as she blinked hard, forcing her vision to clear. The room around her swam into focus in fragments. A bare bulb hanging overhead, stark white light glaring down at her. Cabinets lining the walls. Shelves crowded with supplies she couldn’t make out through the lingering blur. There were no windows. No sound beyond the frantic rasp of her own breathing.
She yanked against the restraints, twisting and pulling with everything she had, but the ropes bit into her skin and held fast.
Her throat constricted.
“Help!” The word tore free before she could think. “Somebody, help! Please! Help!”
Her voice bounced off the walls and came back hollow.
No answering footsteps. No voice. Nothing.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she screamed again, and again, each cry scraping her raw throat. The dryness in her mouth made her cough, and she swallowed against the burning.
How did this happen?
