Stone Cold Heart (Tracers #13)(81)

Icy tentacles of fear slithered through her body and curled around her heart. She couldn’t see a thing. She longed for a flashlight or a candle or even a matchstick. Just a brief flare of light would mean hope. But there was nothing, only inky darkness.

Grace concentrated on her breathing as she shuffled forward. In. Out. In. Out. The ground beneath her bare feet was cool and hard and damp in some spots, probably from dew or groundwater dripping down from above. This had to be a cave. And it had to have an opening. She only hoped she’d picked the right direction when she set out. What if she hadn’t? What if she’d taken the wrong path? What if she fell into a pit? What if she was moving deeper and deeper into an endless cavern, and she got lost and never found her way out?

Shut up, Grace. Just shut the fuck up and move.

She shuffled along, and the ground seemed to be sloping down. Gravity helping her. Or maybe her quivery legs were working better as she got her circulation going.

What would happen when she reached the opening? It was nighttime. She knew that. The bats were out now, hunting for food. Grace peered into the blackness, wishing for the slightest glimmer of moon or stars—anything to guide her.

Snick.

She halted. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she listened. Was it a bat? A predator?

Him?

She listened closely, but there was only silence. She waited a long moment, then started moving again, feeling her way.

Closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven, get me out of this hellhole. Show me the way. Our Father, who art in heaven, get me out of this hellhole. Show me the way.

Grace stopped. She felt something. The air was different here. Not as still and stagnant. It smelled like . . . cedar. Or juniper. She didn’t know exactly, but it was trees or grass, something fresh. Hope surged through her, and she hurried her steps.

Our Father, who art—

Her foot slipped. She lurched forward, trying to catch herself. She expected the ground to hit her. But it never came, and she instantly knew she’d picked the wrong way.

A rusty scream tore from her throat as she fell into the void.





CHAPTER 25


Sara awoke slowly to the sound of a phone. It wasn’t hers.

She shook off the fog and looked across the room to see Nolan’s leather jacket draped over the armchair. He was here. In the shower, from the sound of it.

She pulled on her robe and padded to the kitchen. She needed caffeine to clear the haze. As she measured out coffee grounds, she thought about everything that had happened.

She’d invited Nolan home with her.

He’d spent the night.

For the first time in years, she’d let her guard down with a man and delved way too deep into stuff from her past. She should probably feel self-conscious or maybe regretful, but she didn’t feel either of those things. She felt . . . light.

His phone beeped again, and she eyed it on the counter. The shower went off. Then the bathroom door opened and closed, and she heard him moving around but resisted the temptation to watch him dress. A minute later, he appeared in the living room shirtless and barefoot, jeans unsnapped. He snagged his shirt off the floor and glanced at her as he slid his arms into the sleeves.

“Someone’s pinging you,” she said. “Coffee?”

“Yeah.” He walked over, buttoning up. “I borrowed your razor.”

She smiled, picturing him using her dainty pink razor. “No problem. Cream? Sugar?”

“You don’t have cream.”

“I don’t?” She checked the fridge and discovered he was right.

She poured two mugs and handed him one. He kissed her forehead before taking a sip.

“I’m running late,” he said. “I can drive you to work, but it needs to be soon.”

“I’m supposed to pick up my car at nine. Kelsey said she’d take me.”

His phone beeped again, and he walked over to check it, tucking in his shirttail as he read. He frowned and muttered a curse.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “The case is heating up.”

“What’s that mean?”

He scrolled through a text, then looked over at her. “Austin’s come through with something. A possible sketch of our suspect.”

“Really?”

“This happened last night.” He kept scrolling. “Talia’s bringing it to the task force meeting.”

“I want to see it.”

“Huh?” He glanced up.

“The suspect sketch.”

“I’ll send it to you.”

He crossed the room and picked up his shoes and socks from the floor. He sank onto an armchair and quickly put them on. Clearly, he was late for something important, and this was exactly the scenario she’d worried about: his work needed him, and he was with her, a hundred miles away.

He grabbed his belt and holster off the coffee table. As he threaded the belt through the loops, she remembered unbuckling it last night. He picked up the handcuffs off the table and looked at her as he tucked them into place.

“You working this weekend?” he asked.

“Probably. Why?”

He walked over and slid his hand around her waist, sending a ripple of heat through her. “I’m slammed, but I’d like to see you. I don’t know when, though. Feels like things are coming to a head.” He released her and grabbed his jacket. “Can I call you when I know my timing?”