Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Read online

  This is it. He’s going to rape me now.

  But he left the room. Minutes passed. She had no idea how much time went by. Her heart thundered. Sweat poured from her armpits. Gooseflesh rippled on her bare skin, and her stomach flipped inside out as she waited.

  When the door opened, she startled, her pulse sprinting with a fresh burst of panic. He had a box in his hands. He set it on the floor. From it, he took a piece of gauze and a bottle of rusty-colored liquid. Crouching next to her, he wet the cloth and cleaned her right buttock.

  When he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, she flailed, terror driving her completely out of control. A scream built in her throat, choking her when she couldn’t get it out. The lightweight cot jumped.

  “Stop it!” He backhanded her across the side of the head. Pain jolted through her. Her ears rang, and her body went slack.

  Dimly she heard him rattling around in the box. The sight of the blowtorch and a length of metal brought a groan from her mouth. At the sound, he turned back to her and shoved a thick piece of cloth into her mouth.

  The torch fired up with a soft whoosh. He held the metal rod in the blue flame until the metal glowed. When he turned back to her, she knew exactly what he was going to do.

  Oh, my God. Oh, my God. OhmyGodOhmyGod.

  He was going to brand her.

  “Don’t. Move.”

  She couldn’t obey. Her brain went into a frenzy. Her body went wild, her limbs tensing and straining against her restraints. With a grunt, he straddled her thighs, his bulk weighing her body and the cot down. He pressed one hand between her shoulder blades to keep her upper body still. Without any hesitation, he pressed the brand into her skin.

  Pain blasted through her buttock, the intensity as bright and hot as a rocket. Over the screaming in her throat, she heard his voice, steady and controlled.

  “One. Two. Three.” He lifted the iron.

  The agony radiated from the wound, pulsing with every beat of her heart.

  Drenched in sweat, she went limp. She didn’t recognize the faint mewling sounds that came from behind the gag. She closed her eyes.

  “It’s over now.” A gentle hand caressed her head. He pulled the gag from her mouth. “Shh. Take a deep breath.”

  She couldn’t. Her breaths came faster and faster. He emptied the bag and put it to her face until she stopped hyperventilating.

  “You are a strong one,” he said with pride.

  He took the bag away. Standing, he repacked his tools and took the bag from the room. Then he applied ointment and a bandage to the burn, finally taping a piece of plastic wrap over the bandage. “It’s best to keep the air out.”

  She didn’t move, even after he removed the leather straps. Her body was spent. The horror and pain that filled her left no room for anything else. It filled her until she felt as though she’d burst.

  “You rubbed the skin right off your ankle.” Then he removed the manacle from one ankle and put it on the other. He treated the abrasion, murmuring soft words that were supposed to be comforting, but they only turned her stomach. Then he offered her two tablets. “These will help.”

  She couldn’t respond. She couldn’t do anything. Even her tears and sobbing had stopped. With the heat radiating from her wound, her brain couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. Her body and mind were paralyzed with shock.

  “I’ll leave them here.” He set the tablets on the barrel next to the lantern. “You can take them when you’ve composed yourself. I realize this has been an emotional experience. But now there’s no doubt to whom you belong.”

  He pulled her dress down to cover her legs. Then he went out the door, returning in a few minutes with a white take-out bag. The smell of food wafted across the space, nauseating her.

  “I’ve brought you a special treat. Tonight is special.” He set the bag on the barrel then leaned over her. She flinched as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Tonight, you were marked forever as mine.”

  Chelsea didn’t move as he left. She didn’t know how much time passed. She lay on the cot, curled on her side, trembling down to her skeleton, beyond tears.

  Almost beyond reaction.

  A part of her brain seemed to be shutting down, walling itself off from the horror like scar tissue over a wound. There was only so much fear she could comprehend before descending into madness.

  She pictured Bella’s smile, her joy, spinning in a twirly dress, skipping across a playground, zooming down a slide.

  Running into Chelsea’s arms.

  And William.

  If Chelsea concentrated hard enough, she could smell him, hear his wails, watch his mood shift from despondent to content as he nursed at her breast.

  No.

  She stirred, levering her upper body off the cot.

  She wouldn’t . . . couldn’t give up.

  If she did, he won. And she’d never see her children again.

  Shivering, she looked for the wool blanket. It had slipped onto the floor. She reached for it, the movement sending a white-hot bolt of pain through her buttock, hip, and thigh. She hadn’t seen the brand but knew it was only the size of her palm. Still, her whole body throbbed. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and breathed.

  She spotted a small metal object on the floor near the door. What was that?

  A nail.

  It must have fallen out of his bag.

  Getting to her feet felt impossible. Her body was ravaged by the beating and branding, and by a terror so layered she could barely comprehend its depth. If she sank into that abyss of fear, if it closed over her head, she might never reach the surface of sanity again.

  But she’d learned over the past three years that her body could do amazing things. She’d given birth twice. She could do this.

  She had to do this.

  Shifting her bare feet to the floor, she sat on her uninjured hip. Dizziness swam through her head. She waited, breathing, until it passed. Then she rose to shaky legs. Her knees wobbled, the brand thrummed with waves of heat. Dragging the chain attached to her ankle, she staggered toward the door. The chain ended, and she had to crouch and stretch her hand toward the nail. The tips of her fingers touched it. She pawed it closer, and when her fingers closed around it, a sense of resilience passed through her.

  She grabbed the bag of food and returned to the cot, holding the nail in her closed fist as if it were a priceless prize.

  Food was necessary for survival. She needed to eat, no matter how awful she felt. She opened the bag. Inside, she found a Coke, chicken fingers, and french fries. Her body perked up at the smell. She took a tentative bite of a fry. When her stomach didn’t revolt. She ate another, then moved on to the chicken. She chewed slowly. Who knew when she’d get more food? Everything that went into her belly needed to stay there. She ate every fry and piece of chicken and licked the breadcrumbs from the cardboard box. The Coke settled her stomach. She inspected the two tablets he’d left her. Ibuprofen. There was no need to be in more pain than necessary. She washed them down with Coke. Then she sat back and rolled the nail in her fingertips.

  What was she going to do with it?

  She curled her knees toward her chest. The manacle on her leg clanked. She inserted the nail into the keyhole, working it gently, feeling her way, prodding, pressing, turning.

  Patience! Don’t break it.

  After what seemed like forever, the lock clicked and dropped open. She flinched, staring.

  She’d done it.

  A wave of joy swept over her, quickly followed by a burst of terror.

  What would he do if he found out?

  Memories of the beating and branding flooded her. Unable to cry any more, she gagged on her distress. Small, panicked noises sounded in her throat.

  Stop!

  Bella. William. Bella. William. Bella. William.

  She repeated her children’s names in a centering and calming mantra. Then she got to her feet again to walk toward the door. She touched the door handle, turned i
t, and pushed. There was no give. She used all her weight. Resting her forehead against the cold metal, she breathed.

  No giving up.

  She walked the perimeter of the container again, kicking at each rust spot. Frustration welled in her throat. Her eyes closed, and her head fell back.

  This is hopeless.

  She was going to die. Or worse. She would be here for a long time, subject to his whims. It would get worse. Every cell in her body knew that he had something truly horrible planned for her.

  She opened her eyes. Her gaze locked on the small hole in the ceiling. Through it, she could see a canopy of branches and bits of black night sky. She fetched the camp lantern and held it up. The hole was approximately ten inches in diameter, and the surrounding metal heavily rusted. Could she enlarge it enough to squeeze out? And even if she could, how could she get to the ceiling?

  Scanning the container, her gaze settled on the few objects: the chain coiled on the floor, the barrel, the cot. The blanket fell to the floor as she moved toward the cot.

  It was a standard camp model. She turned it over. The frame and legs were hinged. When folded, it would fit into a canvas carry bag. At either end, an aluminum bar about two feet long supported the frame. She braced her feet against the bar to pop it out of place. Once she had it loose, she slid it from the canvas sleeve.

  Returning to stand beneath the hole, she poked at the edges with the bar. The metal crumbled. She was able to enlarge it several inches all the way around. Large enough that she could probably squeeze through. But she was no gymnast. She couldn’t launch her way through the opening.

  She dragged the cot under the hole. It wasn’t high enough. After reinserting the bracing bar and manhandling it back into place, she turned the cot onto its side. She stooped and picked up the wool blanket, tossing it over her shoulder. She left the lantern behind. She couldn’t risk being seen. The shed must appear exactly the same from the outside. Then, carefully placing her foot directly above the center support bar, she pushed up in one smooth motion. The cot wobbled on its side as she straightened her leg and reached for the hole in the ceiling. Close to the ceiling, she was forced to hunch over. She gripped the edge of the hole to steady her balance and keep the cot from toppling. The sharp metal sliced into her hand, the blood that welled up made her grip slippery.

  Once her balance was stable, she pushed the blanket through the hole. Her head, shoulders, and arms were next. She pressed her palms down on the roof and pulled the rest of her body onto the roof.

  Her breaths came in pants, and her heart jiggled a ragged beat. She rolled to her back and stared up at the sky. The moon shone through a thin veil of clouds. She gulped air. It seemed fresh now, but quickly bit through the thin cotton of her dress. There was nothing she could do about that.

  Her heart sprinted in her chest. If he saw her . . .

  She stopped herself.

  Her mind simply couldn’t go there without being paralyzed.

  She froze. What now?

  She waited, listening and letting her eyes adjust. It didn’t take long, though her vision was still a little blurry. In a few minutes, she could make out the outlines of a building. A small house? Cabin?

  Whatever it was, it was dark. Was he there? Or did he sleep and live somewhere else? The whole property had an abandoned air. But she didn’t have time to contemplate anything. She had to get away. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder. Behind her, on the other side of a meadow, were woods.

  She crawled across the flat roof. On the side opposite the house, she tossed the blanket to the ground. She put her feet over the edge and let her body slide until she balanced on her hip bones. The burn on her buttock raged as the muscles tensed. She wiggled farther, until she dangled from her hands. Then she dropped to the ground. Soft knees absorbed the landing.

  The container blocked the moonlight. In its shadow, darkness surrounded and concealed her. The ground was cold under the bare soles of her feet. She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around her, covering as much of the bright-yellow dress as she could.

  To get to the woods, she had to cross the open space. A wide, open space. She stepped out of the shadows and started toward the trees. Desperation and hope fueled her steps. She broke into a stumbling jog. Sticks and rocks bit into her feet as she ran for the cover of the forest.

  Somewhere behind her, a dog barked. She glanced over her shoulder. A light went on in one of the cabin’s windows.

  Oh, my God.

  He was there!

  Chelsea ran faster. One more glance back showed more lights. A door opened, light spilling out.

  No more looking back. Adrenaline blocked the pain. Her legs remembered this. Running. She did it every day. Muscle memory carried her toward the trees. She blocked out all thoughts of what would happen if he caught her.

  Please.

  Bella. William.

  Mommy loves you.

  The slap of a screen door echoed in the night air.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Enough.” He tossed the chained hound a scrap of beef. The dog snapped his reward out of the air and swallowed it whole. The beast knew its job. It had learned.

  He scanned the silent yard. Everything looked the same as when he’d gone inside.

  The container stood in silence under the thick spread of branches. It had been on the property when he’d purchased it. From the amount of rust on the steel exterior, the metal box had been there for many years. He’d painted the spots of cancer to keep them from spreading.

  He crossed the mossy ground and checked the door. Reaching out, he touched the padlock that secured the door. Locked.

  But something didn’t feel right.

  Turning his head, he listened. The snap of a twig reverberated from the darkness of the trees. A deer?

  He pulled the key from his pocket, unlocked the padlock, and opened the door. The dim light of the camp lantern shone on an empty box. His gaze took in the chain, the upturned cot, the enlarged hole in the ceiling. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he blinked. But it didn’t change reality.

  She’d escaped.

  Anger spiked inside him, red and hot and sputtering like a thick boiling liquid. He breathed the cold night air deeply into his lungs. Emotions wouldn’t find her. A cool head would.

  He’d purposefully chosen a smart woman.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Pivoting, he sprinted for the house. In the kitchen, he grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and his flashlight from the counter, then turned back toward the door.

  Wait.

  He returned to the drawer and withdrew a handgun and checked the load. Then he went back outside and returned to the container. Shining the light on the ground, he found a footprint in the soft earth. Slim arch. Small toes.

  Chelsea.

  Arcing the light back and forth, he spotted another print and connected the dots. The line pointed straight into the woods. He picked up speed, projecting her trajectory.

  “Where are you, Chelsea?” he called. “You can’t get away from me. If you come back now, I won’t hurt you, but if I have to hunt you down, you’ll be sorry.”

  Very sorry.

  Maybe his lessons hadn’t been firm enough. He could fix that. When he found her, she wouldn’t be able to run away. Hell, she wouldn’t be able to walk.

  Or crawl.

  He started down a game trail, his light seeking and finding a footprint and a spot of dark liquid. He squatted and touched it. Turning over his hand, he examined the bright smudge.

  Blood.

  Still wet and bright.

  She hadn’t gotten far.

  He straightened, tilting his head and straining for sounds.

  She was barefoot, wearing a dress as bright as a beacon. She didn’t have a coat, just a blanket to protect her from the fall-crisp air. Though the temperature wasn’t low enough to cause frostbite, she’d definitely suffer hypothermia.

  No. He’d find her. He had
to.

  She was his.

  He felt for the gun in his pocket. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.

  Underbrush rustled to his left—and another sound.

  Heavy breathing?

  He turned toward the sound and broke into a jog. She was close. He could feel her. Smell her. Sense her.

  They were connected by a link that could be broken by only one thing: death.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At nine thirty Friday morning, Lance followed Morgan into her office and watched her get settled. “Good morning.”

  She set her bag and stainless steel travel mug on her desk, removed her coat, and hung it in the closet. Her pants and suit jacket were black, and so were the circles under her eyes.

  Worry pulled at him. She’d spent hours the previous day hashing out the details of the reward offered by Rand with the sheriff’s department. As predicted, the sheriff was pissed off, but he’d taken on the responsibility. The hotline was supposed to be up and running, and a press conference was scheduled for that evening. Morgan would have spent the night drafting rough statements for Tim and Rand.

  No doubt she’d been up late reviewing notes on the case as well. And they’d split the job of writing up the reports on yesterday’s interviews. With her grandfather not able to drive, taxiing Sophie to preschool and Gianna to dialysis also fell on her shoulders.

  She raised her coffee cup to her lips and drank deeply.

  “Are you all right?” Lance asked.

  “Sophie had a night terror.”

  “What is a night terror?”

  “She was thrashing around and screaming in her sleep.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Yes. ‘Hell’ sums up my night perfectly.” Morgan tilted her head back and drained her mug. She crossed the room to the Keurig machine on her credenza. Setting her mug under the spout, she plugged in a pod and pressed the “On” button. “She woke the whole family. I had to bring her into my room for the rest of the night. Sharing a bed with Sophie is like sleeping with an octopus on Red Bull.”

  Sophie was an unpredictable, sensitive, out-of-the-box child. She experienced life with an emotional meter permanently set to high. She loved powerfully and without reservation. And held a grudge, like the one aimed at Lance for claiming some of her mother’s attention, with the steadfastness of a SWAT sniper locked on a target.