Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(45)

“Rand, I know what you’re trying to do,” Tim said. “But we hired a professional for a reason, right? What’s the point if we’re not going to listen to her?”

“OK. You’re right.” Rand nodded, the gesture short and curt and unhappy. He clearly didn’t want to give up control. “Let the sheriff handle it.”

“Do you want me to talk to Sheriff King?” Morgan offered. The sheriff was not going to be happy, but that was too damned bad. He should have been more sensitive to the family’s feelings.

“Is that all right with you, Rand?” Tim asked. “It’s your money.”

“It’s fine,” Rand snapped. Then his aggression faded back to grief. “I don’t care about the money. I just want my baby back.” His voice broke.

“I know.” Tim nodded. “But thank you anyway. This wouldn’t be an option without your help.”

“Now that the reward offer has been made, I’ll call the sheriff and let him know,” Morgan said. “We’ll need to issue a formal statement outlining the terms. The sheriff will have to give us a hotline number. Rand, do you have the money readily available? There could be multiple claimants; though, we’ll include an expiration date and language to give us the ability to change or pull the reward if necessary.”

As much as Morgan hated to be practical at a time like this, if Chelsea was dead, the family should keep its money. Rand and Patricia appeared to be comfortable but not wealthy. Tim would have new childcare expenses. Raising kids was not cheap. He would be doing it alone. As Morgan well knew, single parenting was hard enough without financial hardship.

She continued. “Also, we might want to consider holding a press conference once the details are worked out. The media will really jump on this. When Chelsea disappeared, coverage had to compete with the police shooting. It would be a good idea to get her picture circulating again and make sure everyone in the area knows she is missing and has a fresh image of her in their minds. We can utilize social media. Criminals will turn on their mothers for ten thousand dollars.”

At least, that was what Morgan hoped.





Chapter Twenty


The door opened, and he came in, his black-masked face like a doll with no features.

Chelsea’s heart jolted as she scampered off the cot, eyes cast down at her bare toes. Her body was sore, but she’d eaten the protein bar from that morning, sipped water, and moved around enough to prevent further stiffness from settling into her bruised limbs.

The calories and hydration had helped, though she was careful to move as if she was weak and timid. He seemed to like that.

He held a canvas bag in his hand. When he set it down on the floor, it jangled. Not food.

Apprehension stirred in her belly. Something was different in his posture, his attitude.

“I have something special planned for you tonight.” Excitement vibrated through his tone.

Chelsea’s pulse quickened. Sweat broke out between her shoulder blades and breasts as anxiety blossomed into real fear.

“Say the rules,” he commanded, as he had every time he’d come into the container.

She repeated them.

“Repeat number one.”

“I belong to you. I will do what you say without question. I am your property.”

He opened the bag at his feet. “Lay on the cot, facedown.”

She backed to the wall, her bones trembling. “No. Please.”

The words barely left her mouth before she realized her mistake.

He straightened, anger tensing his body. “What did you say?”

She slapped a hand over her mouth.

“I thought we’d gotten past that.” He shook his head in disappointment as he stepped closer. “Not only did you speak without permission, but you dared to defy me.”

The blow came with lightning speed. Delivered with an open hand, the slap stunned and stung without affecting her consciousness. Still, the force of it sent her reeling. She landed on her knees, the impact with the wooden floor ringing pain through her legs.

“I will not repeat myself again.” His words were slow and deliberate, menacing. “On the cot. Facedown.”

Chelsea’s entire body shook, but she couldn’t seem to move. Her limbs were useless.

“I guess we still have some work to do.” He grabbed the handles of his bag with one hand and took a handful of her hair with the other. Her scalp screamed as he dragged her onto the cot.

“Don’t move.”

She turned her head to watch as he removed thick leather straps from the bag. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she couldn’t stop the sobs that poured from her mouth.

What is he going to do?

He took one hand and firmly tied it to the leg of the cot. Then he did the same with the other. He pulled her dress up to her waist before strapping her torso and legs down.

Cold air caressed Chelsea’s exposed legs and buttocks.

This is it. He’s going to rape me now.

But he left the room. Minutes passed. She had no idea how much time went by. Her heart thundered. Sweat poured from her armpits. Gooseflesh rippled on her bare skin, and her stomach flipped inside out as she waited.

When the door opened, she startled, her pulse sprinting with a fresh burst of panic. He had a box in his hands. He set it on the floor. From it, he took a piece of gauze and a bottle of rusty-colored liquid. Crouching next to her, he wet the cloth and cleaned her right buttock.