The other women had been left behind, but as Callie had warned, Henson wanted Lila for himself. At gunpoint, she had been forced to go with him.
As the vehicle continued down the highway, she rode in silence, quiet but alert to any possibility for escape that might arise. In the meantime, as long as she held Daniel’s interest, she would stay alive. As long as she was alive, she could find a way out of this nightmare.
She thought of Callie. Her friend had promised to come back for her. Lila believed she would have tried. She believed Callie would press the authorities to search for her, believed she would not give up.
Neither would Lila.
She rested her head against the back of the seat and watched the changing landscape. They had been heading west, traveling along I-70 through open, rural country; then Dutch had turned on US 40. They’d passed through a few small towns, but again the land was mostly open and rural. She wondered at their final destination. They would get there eventually.
In the meantime, she needed to keep Daniel Henson happy long enough to get away.
* * *
Edge sat at his desk at Nighthawk. He worked better here. Easier to keep his head in the game and not get sidetracked by his pretty roommate.
Skye was staying in his apartment—which should have messed with his head. Instead, he was looking forward to going home tonight with a beautiful woman and a chance to compare notes after what he figured would be a very long day.
He glanced over to where she sat at her desk, clicking away on the keyboard as she studied her laptop screen. Her thick dark hair hung in soft curls around her shoulders, and he remembered the silky feel of it draped across his chest that morning.
His body stirred. Edge forced himself to ignore it, but the lady sure did turn him on. Skye was deep in concentration, focused on her search. Edge hoped she was making some progress. He sure as hell wasn’t.
He looked up to see Nighthawk’s computer whiz Zoey Rosen walking toward him.
“I’ve got something for you,” Zoey said, her slightly tilted cat eyes crinkling at the corners.
Edge stood up from his desk. “What is it?”
“I found Rolland Beekman’s mother. She lives in Colorado Springs. Been at the same address for the last fifteen years.” Zoe handed him a slip of paper with the address. Edge yanked it impatiently out of her hand, then flashed an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, this is the first break we’ve had in days.”
“I hope it helps,” Zoe said, smiling. “I tracked down Sarah Simmons. After her parents died in a house fire, she wound up in the system. One day she just disappeared.”
“So no family left to notify,” Edge said.
“Doesn’t look that way. I’m still working on Sunstar, but so far, I haven’t found anything useful.”
“You’ll get there.” Edge hoped it was true. Along with finding Lila, they needed to find the guy at the top of the organization—assuming Edge was right and it was someone other than Henson. Sunstar was their best chance.
As Zoe walked back to her office, Edge headed over to Skye’s desk. “We caught a break,” he said.
Skye rose from her chair. She looked more relaxed today, soft color in her cheeks, her shoulders less tense. He thought of last night and figured he deserved some credit for that. He managed not to smile.
“We got a lead?” Skye asked.
“Rollie Beekman’s mother lives in Colorado Springs.” He held up the paper Zoe had given him. “Got the address right here. We can be there in a little over an hour.”
Skye reached for her purse, slung the strap over her shoulder. “Let’s go talk to her.”
Edge went back to his desk, grabbed his black leather jacket and shrugged it on, and they headed out the door. It was the third week of September, the weather in the low seventies, but a storm was brewing. A stiff breeze shifted the branches of the trees, and a bank of clouds hung over the city, turning the sky pewter gray.
They crossed the parking lot to Edge’s new black pickup, and both of them climbed in. Following Siri’s directions, he drove south on I-25. The seventy-mile trip took them to the address Zoe had given him in the 2600 block of East Yampa, an older area of small, wood-frame houses, many of them in rough condition.
The paint was peeling on Mrs. Beekman’s dilapidated dwelling, the asphalt roof tiles missing in several places. A broken-down sofa sat on the covered front porch, springs protruding and stuffing coming out. A junk car on blocks rested in front of a detached garage that leaned precariously sideways.
“Doesn’t look like Rollie comes around very often,” Skye said.
“If he does, he’s not much of a handyman.”
