“This takes a lot of organization.”
“It does.”
She gave a small smile. “It shows. You’re doing a good job.”
His throat tightened. He wasn’t sure why he was having this reaction to Millie’s gentle encouragement. But something about her words reassured him and warmed his heart.
A Jack Russell terrier barked sharply from the far end of the aisle, impatient to get his share of attention. Millie laughed under her breath and headed toward the sound.
Caleb stayed where he was, watching her move through the space.
The kennel was never quiet. Never peaceful.
But it was controlled and purposeful.
He knew then that letting Millie come out here had been a good decision.
While Millie refilled a water bowl for an overeager labradoodle, she heard Caleb’s phone ring.
As he stepped away, she straightened.
Was someone calling him back about that license plate? She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that car, wondering who might have been behind the wheel. Her mind continuously drifted to worst-cast scenarios.
Maybe the fact the vehicle had shown up here was just a coincidence. Maybe there was nothing to worry about.
But she had trouble believing that. Over the past several years, she’d been programmed to prepare for the worst. Her nervous system instantly kicked into action, and her adrenaline pumped.
Caleb turned away slightly and kept his voice low as he spoke.
Millie caught fragments of his conversation but nothing that gave her any real clues.
She only heard the pauses. A clipped acknowledgment. Grunts.
Her pulse ticked faster. What were they talking about?
Caleb’s gaze flicked toward Millie, then back to the floor. “Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate it. I just fear that somehow someone might be able to track us here through an inadvertent clue that’s been left behind—on a scribbled note or computer or—who knows what else.”
Millie continued to fill the water bowls as a memory hit her—a memory of her sitting down at her laptop before she’d come here.
She’d remembered what the nurse at the hospital had told her about a women’s shelter in the Blue Ridge Mountains. She’d said, “If you ever decide you want to go there, remember this. Blue Ridge. Shelter. Cities of Refuge. It will come up on a search. You’ll need a password. Try Golan.”
Millie had committed that to memory. At the time, the words hadn’t made total sense. Then she’d done a search on Golan and had discovered the name in the Bible.
The Cities of Refuge were mentioned in the Old Testament. She’d had to do some research, but she’d discovered that they were six designated cities where someone who accidentally caused another person’s death could flee for protection until receiving a fair trial.
Further research had told her that these cities were symbolic of how Christ could offer refuge to those who fled to Him.
One of those cities was named Golan.
She’d found the website the woman mentioned. Entered the password.
Once she was in, a phone number had appeared on the screen.
When she’d called the number, a woman had answered. The conversation had been vague. The voice on the other line had asked, “You’re looking for a place to stay?”
Millie had said yes. She’d then been instructed to buy a burner phone and to call them back. The woman told her theydon’t make any reservations online—she’d said that might leave a digital trail.
A digital trail . . .
