“God, Lauren,” she whispered. “You didn’t even stand a chance.”
The intercom clicked on.
“Deputy.”
Sara didn’t move. Her grip tightened on the journal.
“You should know,” the voice continued pleasantly, “I was at the search this morning.”
Her head lifted slowly. “You were there?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Paper shifted on the other end. Casual. Domestic.
“With Sheriff Scott. Deputy Wilson. The Bureau. The whole town, really. Quite impressive.”
Her pulse climbed. “Why?”
“I gave them another clue.”
The words dropped heavy.
“A clue?”
“Yes. I took your first writings and placed them in Tom Grady’s tree stand up on Miller’s Ridge. I wanted them to know you’re alive.”
Her gaze snapped to the bookshelf.
The blue journal.
Gone.
Not shifted. Not misplaced.
Gone.
She stared at the narrow gap on the shelf, her mind scrambling.
How?
Her eyes swept the room—the sealed door, the vents, the corners.
The mornings she woke with her tongue thick and her thoughts fogged.
The hours she couldn’t account for.
The unnatural sleep.
A cold realization slid through her.
He could come in.
He could stand over her.
He could move things. He could touch her.
Drugged.
