He kept his eyes on the road as they drove to the hospital. The roads were nearly empty, just the occasional ranch truck or feed hauler in the distance, and the air was cool and still, like the world was holding its breath.
They pulled into the hospital lot. Only a few cars were scattered across the parking spaces. It made it easier to keep watch, and both of them scanned the area as they got out of the SUV. Colt rested his hand on the grip of his sidearm. He didn’t expect trouble here, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come.
Inside, the halls were quiet. A nurse at the station directed them to Wallace’s room, third door on the left. A deputy stood guard outside, leaning against the wall but clearly alert.
She was in her thirties, with short blonde hair tucked behind her ears and a serious expression that said she didn’t miss much. Her name tag read Deputy Lacy O’Connell. Her stance straightened as they approached.
“You’re with Crossfire?” she asked.
Colt nodded and showed her his ID. “Colt Morgan. This is Brenna Keane. Wallace called us.”
She gave a single nod and gestured to the door. “He’s awake and waiting. I’ll be right here.”
Colt stepped into the dim hospital room with Brenna close behind. And he soon saw that the bed was empty. His gaze swept to the corner, where Wallace sat hunched in a chair near the window, blinds drawn tight. The man flinched when the door opened, his shoulders jerking.
“It’s you,” Wallace muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He reached up and clicked on the lamp beside him. Pale yellow light flooded the room.
“I keep jumping at every damn noise,” he went on, his voice tight. “Every shadow. I close my eyes, and I’m right back there. Tied up. Staring at that timer. The explosives.” He shook his head, then looked at them with a flicker of hope. “Tell me you got the bastard. Please.”
Colt gave a slight shake of his head. “Not yet.”
Wallace groaned and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You have to keep looking,” he said. “You have to stop the bastard before he comes after me again.”
Brenna kept her voice steady. “The investigation is in full swing. We’re not letting this go.”
Wallace looked up at them. “You shouldn’t. Your names are on that list, too, right? You’re in this as deep as I am.”
Colt didn’t answer. He kept his expression neutral, but inside, questions churned. What if Wallace had made that list himself? What if the whole abduction was part of some twisted game he was playing?
Wallace’s voice cracked as he went on. “I meant what I said. Thank you. For saving me. I was terrified. Tied up, helpless, no clue if I was going to get out alive.”
Brenna stepped closer. “Who do you think abducted you?”
Wallace hesitated, his mouth twitching. “Maybe Naomi,” he said. “Or maybe that assistant of hers. Jared. He’s like a damn guard dog.”
Then Wallace cursed under his breath. He stood and limped a few steps, then turned back toward them. “I have a confession. I slept with Naomi. We had an affair. It ended badly.”
Colt sure as heck hadn’t expected Wallace to just lay it out. Maybe Wallace figured they’d find out anyway. Maybe this washis version of damage control. Either way, Colt made sure not to react. Not yet. Let Wallace keep talking.
Wallace paced a little, still favoring that one leg. He kept glancing toward the window as if expecting someone to appear.
“Look,” he finally said. “Naomi could be doing this for the blog. The money’s real. I’ve seen the numbers. She’s making more than she ever did reporting the news. The murders gave her traction, followers, attention.”
“And you think that’s enough reason to kill?” Colt asked.
Wallace shook his head. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. But there’s something else. Something worse.”
He stopped pacing and looked straight at Colt. “She wants to rewrite the Timberline story. Paint herself as the only voice that really understood it. The one who suffered most. I think she hated how the town rallied behind the survivors, behind you guys. She was supposed to be the one they listened to. And when they didn’t, she found another way to get the spotlight.”
Colt felt a flicker of unease. He could buy Naomi chasing fame. But rewriting history out of bitterness?
“She wants control of the narrative,” Wallace added. “And people are dying because of it.”
Wallace let out a sharp breath. He looked like a man barely holding it together.
Colt waited a couple of seconds, then asked, “What about Gary? Do you think he could’ve abducted you?”
Wallace gave a weary shrug. “I don’t know. I never saw the person’s face. They stayed behind me, kept the mask on. Voice was muffled, and they barely spoke.”
