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I join him. Still in Isabelle’s room, he has just pushed a dresser aside, revealing a corner of carnage.
A sick feeling sinks into my stomach.
Blood.
Whose blood?
Someone tried to clean up, but it looks like they ran out of time. There were still faint splatters on the wall, and the stain on the carpet hadn’t been touched.
“It’s not hers.” Even the ever-certain Simon Blake’s voice wavers because he can’t fucking guarantee that!
My breathing speeds up. I’m at a loss, but no matter how flimsy Blake’s theory is, I have to go with it. I hold my shirt pocket, feeling the pregnancy test kits. It can’t be her blood. I’ve promised Raffi his mom is still alive. And her baby?
I pace around the house, questions swirling in my head. One persists. Did Raffi witness something that led him to conclude that Isabelle was dead?
No. It was just his fear. He would’ve told me if he’d seen something. He would’ve.
I march back to the bloody scene, squatting in front of it. Everything blurs, and my eyes get filmed out by the tears I don’t want to shed.
“She’s still alive.” Blake crouches beside me, peering at the same bloodied patch of carpet.
I can’t afford not to believe him. So I refrain from turning—because if I do, I’ll see his doubt.
“She’s pregnant, Blake,” I confess. I can’t bear the news alone, and somehow I’m seeking his assurance that he meant it when he told me Isabelle is still alive.
“Clay?”
I show him one of the pregnancy tests, and the man turns to hug me. Apart from Rob, I’ve never had a guy instilling strength in me like this. He doesn’t have to say anything more to convince me that we’re not too late.
“Come on,” he presses. “We’ve got to find her.”
Rob calls as I step out of the room. Without wasting time on greetings and preambles, he blurts, “Clay, what happened to your HartTracker?”
It’s as if a fist had just clouted my chest in a good way. “I gave it to Isabelle.”
“You won’t believe this, but we’ve got a signal from it.”
“No fucking way!” I exclaim. “It’s gotta be her!” Although the question remains—is the device on her or on her dead body?
From the corner of my eye, I see Blake returning to Isabelle’s bedroom.
Rob adds, “The laptop that you swept off your desk, Wanda found it beeping. So you can thank her.”
Blake soon comes to me with an object—or half an object—in his hand. It looks like a broken piece of a cap’s snapback strap, bloody and dented. “Hang on, Rob.”
My PI interprets the finding for me, “Whoever was bleeding there wasn’t Isabelle. Why would she be wearing a cap in the house? After a shower?”
I flash him a praising smile. Now his theory might not just be a theory anymore.
“Is everything okay there?” Rob asks. “Who’s bleeding?”
“Long story, Rob. Where’s she?”
“She’s moving north, approaching a town called Cantwell.”
Keenly listening in, Blake comments, “He’s taking her to a trail, probably Denali or even further north.”
“We’re still in Anchorage, Rob. How far is she from us now?”
