Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(60)

The sheriff turned the chair to face Chelsea’s bed and sank into it. Then he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “Do you remember what happened last Friday night?”

Chelsea inhaled, a hitched and unsteady sound that reminded her of William as he came down from a crying jag. She shook her head. “Not exactly. I have flashbacks.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, memories crowding, intimidating, terrifying her. She pushed them aside. The sheriff would want to find the man who’d kidnapped her. She had to dig deep for courage to help him. “I think he was in the back seat when I got into the car.”

He’d been waiting for her in her own driveway.

“He told me to drive to Grey’s Hollow. After we passed the train station, he made me stop the car and drink something. I was in and out of it for days.”

The doctor had said that the drug had likely affected her memory.

The sheriff frowned. “What’s the first thing you remember after Friday night?”

Chelsea remembered waking in the storage container. Her body began to tremble.

Tim stroked her arm. “It’s OK. You’re safe now.”

She shook her head. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “He. He. He.” She couldn’t get the words out between gasps for air. She inhaled and held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled. “He chained me.”

The infected sore on her ankle throbbed.

“Can you describe him?” the sheriff asked.

Chelsea clung to Tim’s hand as she shook her head, feeling weak and helpless and pathetic. No one was going to find him if she couldn’t even answer a few simple questions. She forced her lips to form the words. “He wore a mask.”

The sheriff frowned. “Anything you can tell us will help.”

Tim raised his voice. “My wife—”

“No, please, Tim. The sheriff is trying to help. I want him caught.” Chelsea tugged on Tim’s hand. “I don’t want him still out there.”

Above all, she wanted him to be the one who was imprisoned and her to be the one who was free.

“All right, but tell me if it’s too much,” Tim said.

She released his hand and picked up her water, taking a slow sip. The water slid down her throat, cool and soothing. She could do this. She lifted her chin and met the sheriff’s gaze. “He wore a ski mask. But he was about six feet tall, maybe a little taller, and strong.”

“What about his voice?” the sheriff asked. “Was it familiar in any way?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No accent?”

“No.”

“What about the place you were held?” the sheriff asked.

“It was an old shipping container in the woods.” Chelsea described the inside of the container then detailed how she’d gotten out through a rust hole in the ceiling. “There was a cabin or small house about a hundred feet away.”

As she talked, her voice grew weaker, her pauses for breath longer. She was physically and emotionally depleted, but she wanted to give the sheriff as much information as she could. “He chased me.” The last three words quivered. “But I just ran. I ran as fast as I could. When I had to stop and catch my breath, I didn’t hear him behind me anymore. I rolled in the dirt. The dress was such a bright yellow. I was afraid he’d see the fabric.”

Probably why he’d chosen such a bright color, she realized with a cold knot in her belly. Maybe a sedative wasn’t a bad idea.

She sipped more water. “The trees are so bare and gray this time of year. After that, I just kept moving. I don’t know how far I went, but I knew that if I stopped, I’d stiffen up. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get going again.”

“Smart,” the sheriff said.

“Plus, it was getting colder, and all I had was that blanket.” Chelsea’s hands—and the rest of her body—shook violently.

The sheriff wrote notes. “Did you see a vehicle?”

“No.” Chelsea pictured the cabin and container in the clearing. “There should have been, though. He must have had transportation.”

“What time did you escape?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Chelsea said.

“Do have any idea how far you ran?” the sheriff pressed.

She shook her head. The night had been a blur of pain and exhaustion and terror. “I don’t know.”

Tim took his wife’s hand again. “Chelsea runs almost every day. She’s very fit.”

The ability to outrun her captor had no doubt saved her life.

Frustrated, the sheriff tapped a pen on his notepad. “How far do you usually run?”

Chelsea rested her head back against the pillows, spent.

Tim jumped in. “Anywhere from five to fifteen miles, and she’s fast too.”

Sheriff King exhaled hard. “And you didn’t follow a trail or stream?”

“I just ran. It was dark. Eventually, I had to walk, but everything looked the same in the woods.” Chelsea’s words and memories blended together, the pitch of her voice rising as exhaustion weighted her.

“Did you hear anything while you were in the container or while you were running away?” the sheriff asked. “Any little detail might help us locate him.”