“My daughter—” she began when she heard Penny calling for her.
“Ellie? Margery needs you.”
“The pregnant woman?” Ellen said to him. “She’s showing signs of preeclampsia. If her blood pressure spikes, she and the baby are both in danger. You keeping a gun on her isn’t helping.”
He said nothing.
Ellen took a moment to compose herself, then walked into the living room, brushing past the man with the gun. He followed.
She took Margery’s blood pressure. It was 150 over 80. “Liedown,” she said gently but firmly. “Close your eyes. Breathe slow. In. Out. You’re going to be fine.”
“Mom,” Lyla whispered, kneeling beside Margery, voice low. “Ryan’s truck is out front. They came inRyan’s truck.”
Ellen’s blood ran cold.
Where was Ryan?
Ellen touched Lyla’s arm—I heard you—then rose slowly, heart thudding in her chest.
She turned to their captors.
“Where is my daughter?” Her voice was surprisingly steady. “I did what I promised. Now tell me where Avery is.”
Rena looked to the man. “Brock,” she said, her voice quivering.
The man didn’t answer either of them.
Ellen took a step forward, voice rising. “What did you do?” Her breath hitched. “What happened to my daughter?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jake slowed as he approached the corner of Orchard Lane and Privett, headlights sweeping across the reflective sheen of the water. County traffic barriers stood in a crooked line, barely visible in the dark, orange cones and sawhorses sagging under the weight of relentless drizzle, reflective circles first bright, then dark. Water pooled thick and black across the road, rippling with the wind. He couldn’t see how deep it was, but based on the water at the base of the closest sawhorse, it was about a foot deep. He could drive through a foot of water in his truck, but he didn’t know if it was deeper farther down. Probably. The county didn’t throw up those signs for nothing.
He cursed under his breath. Home was less than a mile down that road. He could almost see it—lights, dry clothes, warm bed. But not at this risk. Not with Bobby sleeping slumped against the passenger door, arms curled around his ribs. And they couldn’t exactly walk when Bobby had no shoes, especially when they couldn’t see what they were stepping on.
Jake eased off the gas and kept going straight, then a quarter mile up the road he turned sharply onto a long, waterlogged gravel drive that disappeared into a wall of pines.
Uncle Travis’s place.
He hoped his uncle was sober. He didn’t want to get into a fight with the man. He already felt bad about their conversation earlier today, when Travis wanted to help and Jake said no.
The headlights bounced as the truck rattled over potholes and splashed in pools of water. He drove through one low spot where the water splashed up and covered his windows. He was lucky he didn’t stall out. Then the old farmhouse came into view—porch light on, almost inviting. Jake cut the engine and sat for a moment, watching the flickering light from the kitchen window, willing the rain to stop. It had slowed, but was still falling in a steady mist. What did it matter? He was still wet from getting out when he found the Mendozas’ truck—and didn’t find Avery.
Jake reached over and gently shook Bobby awake. “Hey, bud. We’re at Uncle Travis’s. Orchard is blocked off by the county.”
Bobby blinked groggily, then looked around. “Uncle Travis?” he repeated.
Jake nodded. “Yeah. Come on, I’ll carry you.”
Jake carried Bobby up the porch steps. Travis answered after one knock, rubbing his face with a towel, dressed in an old flannel shirt and jeans. He looked alert and clean—he’d even trimmed his beard, which was redder than his brown head of hair. He wasn’t the disheveled drunk Jake usually thought of when he pictured his uncle.
“Jake,” Travis said with a quiet surprise. “Didn’t expect— Come in. What happened? Come, get outta the rain.”
Inside, the place was cleaner than Jake had ever seen it, at least since his great-grandmother had lived here. No open bottles on the counter. No smell of stale beer or whiskey. Travis must’ve seen the look on his face because he offered a small smile.
“Yeah,” he said. “I cleaned up.”
“You’re sober,” Jake said bluntly. He smelled coffee now, and bacon and eggs—Uncle Travis always did like breakfast for dinner.
