She Can Hide (She Can #4)(2)

Loneliness rivaled fear in her heart as the current tugged harder. For the second time, she was facing death alone. But if she could do it over again, would she change?

Could she change?

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to get another chance. Her frozen fingers faltered, then slipped. The wet metal slid out of her grip. Frigid water closed over her head.




Two hours earlier

Sleet pinged off the police cruiser’s windshield as Ethan slowed to read the number on a rusted mailbox. The painted numerals were too faded to read, but his GPS told him he had the right address. Besides, there wasn’t another farm in sight. Snow-crusted fields stretched out on both sides of the road. On the other side of the flat plateau, the Endless Mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania jutted into the sky.

He turned into the driveway. The vehicle bounced down the rutted lane. Weather-beaten to a dull gray, a used-to-be-white farmhouse squatted on the right. Porch boards sagged. The roof dipped. To the left, a cluster of ramshackle sheds leaned at precarious angles. Around the supposed barnyard, six inches of frozen snowpack covered three barbwire enclosures. Combined, the corral areas totaled roughly a quarter acre.

Did animals live in those? Ethan knew the answer. This wasn’t his first call to provide backup on an animal cruelty call.

He checked in with dispatch and parked behind the Pennsylvania SPCA truck. Three more official vehicles, including a long stock trailer, crowded the yard. A caravan wasn’t a good sign. The humane officers had come prepared for seizure.

He grabbed his hat from the passenger seat. Shoving it firmly on his head, he got out of the vehicle and flipped up the collar of his Westbury PD jacket. Under the brim, an icy wind pelted his face with sleet. He opened his trunk and changed into heavy waterproof boots. Then he followed a group of footprints to the center of the compound. Bracing himself, he peered inside the first shed.

His gaze locked on a group of wretched animals huddling in the miserable weather. Sleet and wind cut through the huge gaps in the roof and walls in their pathetic excuse for a shelter. The horses bent heads and closed eyes against the precipitation. Bones protruded through ragged wet fur.

Son of a bitch. Anger seared through the cold.

“Ethan.” His cousin, humane society police officer Veronica Hale, trudged toward him, partially frozen mud sucking at her boots. A navy blue watch cap pulled low over her forehead covered hair that was as jet-black as his. The ends poked out and lay wet against the shoulders of her bulky parka. She held a compact camera in one gloved hand and a clipboard in the other.

“What’s the story, Ronnie?”

Ronnie tucked her clipboard under her arm and shoved both hands in the pockets of her coat. She hunched her shoulders against the wind. At thirty-one, she was two years Ethan’s senior. Both were the oldest in their respective families and shared a lifetime bond created by decades of harassment at the hands of their younger siblings.

Her cheeks were blistered red from the cold. She’d been out here awhile. “We got a call from a utility worker concerned about the condition of a few horses. We did a ride-by, saw three animals in bad condition in the front paddock, and got a search warrant for the premises. When we got here, we found nine more horses. The whole dozen of them are emaciated. The living conditions are beyond unsanitary.” Ronnie swiped a knuckle under a watery blue eye. “We’re seizing all of these animals today.”

“Have you told the owner yet?”

Ronnie gave him a tired smile. “I was waiting for backup. Mr. Smith is agitated and confrontational. The vet is finishing his assessment of the animals. Smith keeps getting in his way.”

“Where is he?”

Ronnie squinted against the precipitation. “Inside the third lean-to.”

“Let’s get it done.” Ethan followed her, taking stock of the conditions. Water buckets frozen over. Despite the cold, ammonia burned his nostrils, a sure sign of urine overload from animals confined too long in untended close quarters. As they stepped inside, angry voices dimmed the patter of sleet hitting corrugated metal. A nervous bay horse huddled in the corner. The hips of the roan pony closest to Ethan were sharp as ax blades. The pony turned and gave him a friendly nose bump. Ethan rubbed the bony neck.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with these animals.” In the center of the space, a skinny man dressed in jeans, heavy boots, and an olive green canvas coat crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the vet. Ethan categorized him automatically. Five-foot-eight. A hungry one-thirty. Gray hair. Gray eyes. Belligerent attitude. “None of them is starving. They get fed twice a day.”

Scraggly whiskers and an arthritic posture suggested he was at least seventy and not in the physical condition to care for this many animals even if he cared, which Ethan doubted.

He scrutinized the space. No feed buckets in sight. The only wisps of hay in the frozen muck were mingled with manure. Twice a day his ass. These horses hadn’t seen a decent meal in a long time, so long that their bodies had run out of fat for fuel and moved on to burning muscle. The extreme cold weather of the last couple of weeks had sped up the process.

“Where do you keep your feed?” Ronnie clicked a pen over her clipboard.

The old man’s eyes drifted left. “I’m due for a delivery tomorrow.”

Ronnie paused. “So you have no feed for these animals?”

“I got some. Price of feed is steep. Sometimes I gotta ration.” The old man zeroed in on Ethan. “Who’s he?”