“Dammit. I only got her away from the door ten minutes ago.” A petite, blond woman dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose red tank top comes in from the kitchen, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, and holds out her hand. “Captain Stone? Lieutenant Blade? I’m Parker Elmore.”
“Jasper. And that’s AJ,” Jas says as he shakes her hand. “You’re doin’ us a favor, Parker. Not reporting for duty. Did Belle give you any trouble?”
“She’s a good puppy.” Parker drops to one knee and scratches the dog behind the ears. “But she sat by the front door all day. I tried a tennis ball, her rope toy, even treats. At least she finished all her dinner. If you two are hungry, there’s a tray of enchiladas on the stove that should still be warm.”
“You…cooked?” I run a hand through my hair. Fuck. I need a shower. I can’t remember the last time I ate. Yesterday?
Parker shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d be up for it, and I rarely have the time. My mama was a chef in El Paso for twenty years. I’ve got all her secret recipes. You need me back here in the morning?”
I can’t think that far ahead. Fucking hell, I can’t think at all. Somewhere in the background, I hear Jasper telling her to show up at ten.
Bypassing the stove, I move to the wet bar and dig out the bottle of Pappy’s I was savin’ for when I made captain. I stare at it for a full minute before I shake my head and pour myself a glass of Maker’s Mark instead. Grace and I were supposed to open the Pappy’s together.
“Nope.” Jasper eases the glass from my grip. “You ain’t touching a drop until you eat something.”
“Fuck you.” I don’t have the energy to throw any malice behind my words. Plus, deep down, I know he’s right. The bourbon would go straight to my head. I want it to. I need it to. Otherwise I’ll be staring at the ceiling all night thinking about the horrible things Grace could be going through.
“Sit down. I’ll get the food. Eat two enchiladas and I’ll give this back to you.”
When he returns with the plate, I grunt my thanks. Parker’s a damn good cook, and the food clears my head a fraction.
Jasper and I sit in silence until I can’t keep my eyes open another second. He knows where the guest room is.
I make it as far as the bedroom before stopping cold. Our bed still smells like her, still holds the shape of her body. I can’t. Not tonight.
So I grab a pillow and blanket, dragging them into Grace’s studio. At least here I’m surrounded by her—her colors, her brushstrokes, the way she sees beauty where the rest of the world sees only broken things.
I stretch out on the couch and press my hand hard over my mouth. The sobs come anyway, raw and ugly.
Belle pads over and rests her head on my thigh. Her big blue eyes are wrecked with the same question burning me alive.
Where is she?
I curl an arm around the dog’s neck, bury my face in her fur, and press a kiss to her head.
“We’ll find her, girl.” My voice cracks, hoarse from calling Grace’s name for hours while walking the trail. “On my life, we’ll find her.”
Chapter Seven
Grace
Curled into a ball under the thin blanket, I sob until my eyes are so swollen, the small room blurs into nothing but shapes and shadows. The sound of my ragged breathing is the only break in the silence, yet it’s too loud. Too fragile.
After Zeke left, I examined every single inch of the room. The walls, the corners, the baseboards…even under the small sink and behind the toilet. No cameras—unless they’re really well hidden. Nothing I can use as a weapon except the heavy desk chair. But my arms tremble so much I doubt I could even lift it, let alone swing it.
The eggs and hash browns are gone, stretched into tiny bites over what felt like hours, maybe an entire day. I don’t think they were drugged. Though I’m still so hungry that my stomach is gnawing at itself. Hunger is the worst kind of enemy, I think—it eats your strength, your fight, every second.
Zeke’s Doctrine lies open at the foot of the bed, his arrogant scrawl mocking me. If I close my eyes, I might sleep. But what if I don’t hear the door when it opens, or the footsteps when they come for me? What if I lose my only chance at escape because I let myself rest?
So I read page after page, until, hours later, I’m crying again.
If I weren’t locked in this tiny room waiting for him to murder me in some ritual sacrifice, I’d laugh at the damn thing. The Glorious One is some twisted cocktail of God, Zeus, and Q from Star Trek—a cosmic tyrant who supposedly speaks only to the Prophet. And Zeke is a delusional megalomaniac with daddy issues, so drunk on his own power, he thinks the sun rises and sets by him.
From the list of the cult members I found in the very back of the book, over four hundred men, women, and children have bound themselves to him. Some by choice, but most—I’d bet—by fear. While a lot of them live on this compound, more than a hundred are spread out all over Austin, Dallas, and El Paso.
With that many members across the state, even if I can escape, will I ever be safe again?
My entire body jerks. Shit. I fell asleep. But for how long? What I wouldn’t give for a window. Any way to tell time.
