Drop Dead Gorgeous(97)

Barnes’s jaw clenches, his own keen mind processing through the information he’s been presented with. He steps around me to look in the refrigerator himself. I looked over every inch. There’s nothing else to find unless Zoey has magically appeared from an alternative universe since I last looked in there.

Unfortunately, that hasn’t happened, and Sheriff Barnes reaches for the radio at his shoulder.

“This is Sheriff Jeff Barnes. I need every officer in Williamson County to report for duty STAT. We have a missing person.” He pauses, the next words hard for him to say and harder for me to hear. “Zoey Walker is missing, foul play is suspected. I repeat, All Points Bulletin for Zoey Walker. We need to find her, boys. Someone took one of our own. Over.”

He releases the button, and there’s a moment of static before someone replies, “This is Smith. On it, Sheriff.”

Another voice says, “Parker here. We’ll find her, sir.”

He blinks, though I don’t think a man like him cries—at least not in the middle of an investigation—and pushes the button again, “Kenny?”

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“I need you to go by Yvette Horne’s house. She’s our number-one suspect and you’re closest. Be careful, son. Over.”

“Yes, sir.”

Silence descends for a moment as the chill of the room seeps into my bones. Zoey is really missing.

“Barnes?”

It’s only one word, but he hears everything I have tied up in it. . . my plea for help, my promise to do whatever it takes to get Zoey back, and most of all, my prayers that she is unharmed.

“I know, kid. Come upstairs and let me show you how a real investigation is done.”





Chapter 25





Zoey





A disgusting smell assails my nostrils, and that’s saying something because I have smelled some rank stuff before. Decomposition has its own aroma, unlike no other. Thankfully, what I smell now isn’t that, but rather . . . ammonia.

Stale and sharp . . . urine.

My nose crinkles, and I try breathing through my mouth instead, an old trick Grandpa taught me when I first started working by his side. My eyes flutter as I try to blink, but it’s just as dark as before when I manage to force them open. I’m lying down and can feel that I’m enclosed.

My first thought is that I’ve been buried alive, and I panic, my heart beating out of my chest as I thrash and flail, screaming in terror. My foot kicks something solid and metal, and I cry out, pulling my knee to my chest sharply.

“Ow!” It hurts like a bitch, tears instantly sprouting, but it does stop my panic attack enough that my surroundings start to take shape. Mostly, the hum of road noise comes to me.

I’m in . . . a trunk?

What happened?

I try to remember. There was court . . . and Holly’s . . . and the morgue. I was mopping. Is that why I’m wet?

Or is the urine my own?

No, not mine because now that I’m thinking about it, I could really pee, but this doesn’t seem to be the time nor place.

Think, Zoey. Mopping and then what? How did I go from the morgue to a trunk?

In a flash, I remember . . . something. A feeling of not being alone, yelling at Jacob.

But it wasn’t Jacob. I know that.

Who was it?

A sharp pain lances through my skull as I try to remember, and I hiss.

Okay, breathe, Zoey. If you can’t go back, figure out what’s happening now.

Blindly, I feel around—stinky carpet, hard metal framing, a few wires.

Wait, what’s that?

Behind my leg, I feel something big and squishy. I twist and bend, trying to get my hand down to grab it.

“C’mon, Zoey. Stretch like you’ve never stretched before. Pretend you’re at yoga . . .” Grunt. “Or one of those bendy people who can do a backbend without cracking a bone.”

The pep talk still sucks, but as I flick my fingers against what I can now feel is nylon, I finally get a grip on it and pull it up. It’s a . . . bag?

“Please let there be a weapon inside,” I pray as I find the zipper. Inside the bag, I don’t find the metal of a gun or the plastic of a Taser, but rather fabric, wet and smelly with a new layer of stink that adds to the urine grossness still surrounding me despite becoming accustomed to it.

“Ugh,” I groan, wiping the wetness on my scrub pants. Not finding anything I can weaponize, I tune in to what’s happening outside the car.

Road noise . . . a speed bump or . . . Wait. That was a railroad track.

Immediately afterward, we swerve left.

I close my eyes to trace the railroad line through Williamson County.

What if you’re not in Williamson County anymore?

The thought sends ice through my body, raising goosebumps along my arms. It’s entirely possible I’m somewhere well beyond county lines because I have no idea how long I was unconscious.

But I have to believe that railroad is the one I’m familiar with because the alternative is too terrifying.

Okay, Zoey. Think. Railroad track crossing and then a left swerve.

It hits me . . . a pothole. At the Cameron Oaks crossing, there’s a huge pothole that’s been there for years. People who live out here in Williamson County know that and swerve without giving it a second thought.