Stone Cold Heart (Tracers #13)(83)

“I don’t know.”

“And the thing about the gates,” Sara said. “How can you tell all that from the drone footage?”

“You can’t. I called a friend of mine in the Allen County sheriff’s office and asked him to do a drive-by. He said the place is locked up. Tall game fence, heavy-duty locks on the gates. You can’t just wander in there and launch a drone.”

“But he did, so you’re saying . . .”

“I think whoever launched this drone camera is the unsub. And I bet he owns this property or knows who does.”

? ? ?

Grace’s eyes drifted open. A blade of sunlight cut into her skull. She closed her eyes and tried to turn away, but her head seemed to explode.

She sucked in a breath and felt razors slicing into her side.

She’d fallen. She’d broken . . . something. At least a few ribs. She tried to move her legs. After a moment’s resistance, she was able to drag them over the gravel.

She could move her legs.

She was in sunlight.

She turned her head, ignoring the pain as she drank in her surroundings. She was in a pit, surrounded by rock walls. The floor of the pit was shadowed, but a shaft of sunlight fell over her face.

Sun.

Grace tried to push up. But pain tore through her shoulder, and she collapsed. She looked at her wrists, filthy and black and oozing with pus. The wounds were disgusting, the result of days and days of tight bindings.

But the bindings were gone now. She was free. She’d stumbled into a pit, and now she had to get herself out before he discovered she was gone and came looking.

Grace’s eyes burned with tears. They were tears of relief, as well as of terror at the thought of him finding her now when she was so close to escape.

She took a shallow breath. And another. And another. Bracing herself for the pain, she used her good arm to push herself up. Then she tested her legs. They felt heavy and sore, but with the twine gone, she could move them. She pushed to her knees and leaned on her palm as pain rocketed through her skull and her vision blurred. She probably had a concussion. But that was the least of her problems if she didn’t get out of here.

She took another breath and crawled toward the wall of the pit. Slowly. Painfully. An inch at a time across the uneven floor. Puddles of milky water reflected the sky above her—blue sky. Her throat felt parched, but she couldn’t drink. Not yet. She didn’t have time to be sick and puking from contaminated water. She had to get out of here.

He was coming back.

Pebbles cut into her knees as she inched toward the wall. When she finally reached it, she pressed her hand against the stone. It was cool and damp. She slumped against the rock, dizzy from exertion.

Looking up, Grace saw clear blue sky. But it seemed miles away. Light-years.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks. After another shallow breath, she pushed herself to her knees. Her thighs quivered. Grace gripped the stone and pulled herself up.

? ? ?

Nolan shot backward out of his driveway. He was going to be late, but he’d needed to stop home and change. He couldn’t show up for work in the shirt he’d worn yesterday, which had obviously spent the night on somebody’s floor.

Cruising down his street, he thought of Sara. Her last relationship had done a number on her. Her jilted fiancé had made her feel guilty for following her instincts and planted the idea in her head that she was bad at relationships. Now she questioned her own judgment—which Nolan recognized, because he’d done the same after Michelle. Sara was wary, and Nolan didn’t want to push. But he wanted to show her she could trust him.

It was ironic, really. Being with someone deceitful had made Nolan more determined to listen to his instincts when it came to people. His instincts told him Sara was special and they were special together. He just hoped she realized it eventually and didn’t put her guard up again.

Nolan wanted to see her tonight. Or at least talk to her. Seeing her was definitely better, but he had the distinct feeling his day was going to go sideways.

Nolan neared the church on the corner and spotted Reverend Cook in the parking lot. He had been trying to reach the man since Wednesday. Nolan glanced at his watch and cursed, then whipped into the parking lot and pulled into a space. Cook paused on the sidewalk as Nolan hopped out.

“Detective Hess.” Cook offered him a handshake.

“Morning, Reverend. I’ve been trying to reach you. Left a couple of messages with your staff?”

“Oh.” He made a face. “Sorry about that. Betsy’s getting a little . . . forgetful. It’s become a bit of a dilemma for us.”

Nolan nodded. “Got it. Listen, I need to touch base on something. I was talking to Elaine Hansen, and I had a question about her donation last year.”

“Todd Hansen’s widow?”

“That’s right. She mentioned she donated Todd’s car after he died. A white Chevy Tahoe. I need to find out where it went from here.”

“Here?”

“After she donated it to you guys.”

“Elaine Hansen?”

“That’s right.”

The reverend shook his head. “We got a sofa from Elaine. And a few bags of clothes, if I recall, but she didn’t donate a vehicle.”

“You sure? You want to check your records or—”

“I’m quite sure. We don’t get many vehicle donations, as you can imagine. Now, the sofa I remember quite vividly. We put it in our recreation hall, where our youth group meets.”