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“Great,” Santana muttered, knowing whatever confidence he’d gained with the anxious colt had been shattered. “Just . . . damned great.”
He turned his attention to the open doorway, searching for whoever had been foolish enough to let the door slam. “Hey!” he called out as he climbed over the fence separating the exercise ring from the rest of the stable, vaulting the top rail and landing lightly on his booted feet.
No idiot stomping off snow and shaking away the cold appeared in the doorway. Only Nakita whining and staring outside to the dark night.
Frost-laden air screamed inside, but no one appeared. Nate yanked the door closed, double-checked the latch as a drip of ominous worry slithered down his spine. The door had been closed tight, the latch secure. He was certain. He’d pulled it shut himself.
CHOSEN TO DIE
25
Or had he been so distracted by his missing woman that he had been careless and a stiff gust of wind had pushed the old door open? The latch had always been dicey. He’d been meaning to fix it; it just hadn’t been high on his priority list. Again, he had the uncanny sensation that someone was with him; that he wasn’t alone. But all he heard was the sound of restless hooves in the surrounding stalls and the snorts of horses disturbed from their normal routines. He trained his eyes on the boxes, noting that the roan mare and bay gelding in abutting stalls were staring at the corner near the feed bins. Lucifer had stopped galloping wildly, but held his head high, his nostrils flared. As he slowed, his dark coat quivered and his gaze was centered dead-on Santana. Nate grabbed a pitchfork from its hook on the wall and took two steps toward the shadowy corner near the oat bin.
Brrriiing!
The stable phone shrieked.
He nearly jumped from his skin.
Gloved hand holding the handle of the pitchfork in a death grip, he retraced his steps and snagged the receiver of the phone mounted near the door.
“Santana,” he barked, receiver pressed to his ear as he scoured the interior of the stable with his gaze.
“This is Detective Selena Alvarez, Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department.”
He felt every muscle in his body tense. “Yeah.”
“I’m Detective Regan Pescoli’s partner.”
He already knew that much. What he didn’t know was whether Regan had confided to Alvarez that she and he were involved.
26
Lisa Jackson
“Uh-huh.”
“Pescoli didn’t show up for work today. I thought you might know where she is.”
So the cat was out of the bag about their affair. Good. “I haven’t seen her.”
“How about last night?”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
“Look, I know you and she have a thing going. She never really talks about it, but I pieced it together, so if you know where she is—”
“I don’t,” he cut her off. “We were together a couple of nights ago. Haven’t seen her since,” he admitted, his jaw setting. “I’ve been calling her cell and the house phone. No answer.”
“I was afraid of that.” The woman swore softly and frustration was in her voice. Santana felt a chill colder than the bowels of hell. “If you hear from her, will you have her call in?”
“Yeah.” He sensed Alvarez was about to hang up and asked, “Where do you think she is?”
“If we knew that, I wouldn’t be calling you.” She hung up and the word we reverberated through his mind. As in we: the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Depart- ment. He replaced the phone, his guts twisting, the sensation that something was wrong validated. If the damned police department didn’t know where she was, things were worse than he’d feared. Boom!
Grace Perchant’s eyes flew open.
Although, she thought, they’d never been closed. She blinked. Tried to clear her mind when the sound of the blast, like the clap of nearby thunder, ricocheted through her brain again.
