Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(27)

“Typically, the opposite happens. They contact the family immediately to prevent the police from being involved at all.”

Morgan’s thinking line creased the bridge of her nose. “What’s your impression of Elliot?”

“Smart. Ambitious. Workaholic.” The air streaming from the vents warmed, and Lance turned the heater on high.

“His only alibi is his brother, though I can’t come up with any reason Elliot would hurt Chelsea.” Morgan stretched her hands toward the heat vents in the dashboard. “But we should find out more about his wife’s death.”

“I’ll let my mother know, though I’m sure she’ll find it on her own.” Lance checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost eight thirty. “I’ll drop off the list of Speed Net employees tonight. It’ll be a good excuse for the extra visit.” He usually stopped to see his mom once a day.

Heat filled the vehicle until Lance was nearly sweating.

But Morgan settled deeper into her seat with a contented sigh. “I doubt his employees get along as well as he claims. There’s always workplace drama.”

“Throw in high stress levels and a bunch of very young people with outrageous IQs and weak social skills,” Lance added. “It was like a high school in there.”

“Right?” Morgan laughed. “I felt like such a mom.”

She crossed her legs, the movement drawing Lance’s eye fast enough to treat him to a quick flash of pretty thigh. “I don’t think Kirk saw you as a mom.”

And neither did Lance, despite the fact that he loved her kids.

“No?” She seemed cheered by his comment.

“No.” Lance wasn’t giving Kirk a pass because of his autism. The kid had acted weird toward Morgan and even weirder when they’d talked about Chelsea. Until she turned up, no one was getting a pass for any reason except a solid alibi.





Chapter Twelve


Pain surrounded Chelsea. Her entire body hurt. Was there any body part he hadn’t battered?

Not that she could find.

She opened her eyes. They were so swollen that all she could manage were slits. Her vision blurred. She lifted a hand to her face and barely recognized its tender contours.

Giving up, she lay still for a while. Her ribs were bruised. Every time she drew in a breath, it felt as if she was wearing a corset of nails.

Pain rolled over her in waves but eased as she breathed more deeply and smoothly.

You can’t give up!

Chelsea forced her eyelids open a bit farther and scanned the room as much as she could without moving her head. She was still in the shipping container. Still chained to the barrel. She lay on her side, curled naked on the plywood, in the corner where she’d crawled in a feeble attempt to get away from him.

But there had been no escaping.

As punishment for trying to open the drum, he’d ripped the clothes from her body. He’d taken away the cot, the blanket, and the water and left her shivering in an empty metal box.

After a few minutes, she lifted her head a fraction of an inch. The first movement sent dizziness careening though her. Dehydration? She swallowed. Vomiting wasn’t possible. She was so empty she felt hollow. She hadn’t had anything to drink since he’d beaten her, and she didn’t remember when she’d last eaten.

Still, her stomach heaved as she slowly tested each limb with a tiny movement. She curled her toes and clenched her fingers, bent each knee and elbow. Her muscles protested, but her bones felt miraculously intact. There was no blinding agony to indicate a mortal injury; instead she felt an all-over soreness and exhaustion that made her not want to move at all. But that wasn’t an option.

Do something or die.

She put both hands on the plywood and pushed her torso off the floor. The dizziness passed and she sat upright, leaning against the corrugated wall. The metal was cold on her bare back, and she shivered violently.

The cold helped to clear her head as she scanned her body. Her skin was mottled with bruises. She put a hand to her swollen mouth. Dried blood caked her split lips. She found a painful lump on her scalp.

But swelling and bruises seemed to be the worst of it. The rest of her injuries seemed to be superficial. Extensive, but not life-threatening.

As if he knew exactly how hard he could hit her without causing major damage.

As if he’d done it before.

Movement seemed to ease the stiffness in her body a little. She peeled her tongue off the roof of her mouth. Dehydration was the biggest threat. Without water, she wouldn’t survive much longer.

There was nothing to do except wait. Rest. Heal. When an opportunity presented itself, she needed to be ready.

She looked up at the hole in the ceiling. The sky was dark. Nighttime. She tried to determine how long she’d been here but couldn’t.

The sound of a padlock being opened and chains rattling startled her. She jerked to full alertness, pain jolting through her limbs at the sudden movement.

The door opened, and he stepped inside. The mask made him featureless, and her insides shivered. Her gaze locked on the gallon jug of water in his hand. His other hand was behind his back, and she eyed it with suspicion.

“You’re awake.” His head tilted as he assessed her. “Finally.”

Had he been in before? Had he watched her while she’d slept?

A shudder racked her bones. Her mouth opened to respond to his greeting, but somewhere deep in her mind a warning bell sounded.