The two men entered the large therapy room. Sean’s gaze swept the space and stopped. Only Tim and an older man remained. The patient stood near one of the treatment tables, buttoning his dress shirt.
No Grace.
Something cold slid through Sean’s chest. As Dan headed toward the laundry room, Sean turned to Tim. “Where’s Grace?”
Tim looked up and pointed toward the back door. “She took the garbage out.” His eyes flicked toward the wall clock, and his expression shifted. “But that was about ten minutes ago.”
The world seemed to narrow around those words. Sean was moving before his thoughts could catch up. He crossed the room at a sprint and slammed into the back door hard enough to send it crashing open against the exterior wall. His eyes scanned the alley, searching every shadow, every parked car, every corner.
Please let her be standing there.
Please let her be talking to someone.
Please let there be some ordinary explanation.
Jinx shot past him, barking once before racing into the lot.
Behind Sean, he heard Dan and Tim rushing after him, but their footsteps barely registered over the roar of blood pounding in his ears. Grace’s car sat exactly where it should. The lot was empty except for that and Tim’s SUV.
“Grace!” His shout bounced off brick walls and vanished into the evening air.
He pointed sharply, his voice clipped and urgent. “Dan, go left. Tim, check her car.”
After issuing the orders, he ran right.
“Grace!” The name tore from his throat again as he scanned the lot.
Jinx veered toward the dumpster two storefronts down, nose to the pavement, every line of his body alert. Sean followed, dread building with each step.
The dog stopped beside something white on the asphalt—Grace’s shoe.
For a second, Sean couldn’t breathe.
The single slip-on she’d been wearing that morning lay on its side near the dumpster. Jinx nosed it, then looked up with a low, mournful whine that sliced the air.
A wave of ice-cold fear swept through Sean, threatening to drag him under.
No.
No, no, no.
Forcing himself to think, he left the shoe untouched and yanked out his phone. His fingers felt clumsy as he scrolled to the direct line for the sheriff’s department.
Please let this be anything else.
Please let there be some explanation.
When the desk sergeant answered, Sean’s training took over, his voice turning sharp and controlled despite the panic clawing at his throat. “This is Special Agent Sean Malone of the FBI. I need the sheriff and BCI to respond immediately to 113 Main Street in Whisper for a kidnapping by an unknown suspect. Grace Whitman, blonde female Caucasian, twenty-seven, last seen wearing khaki pants and a navy blue polo shirt. Abduction occurred in the last ten to fifteen minutes. No description of a vehicle or suspect. Also, contact Detective Brad Lynch and have him respond.”
After the sergeant repeated the information back to him, Sean ended the call and turned. Dan stood a few yards away, his face pale beneath the lingering daylight. The fear in his uncle’s eyes mirrored what Sean was fighting to contain.
He swallowed hard and forced the words out. “Go be with Bonnie. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
His uncle gave him a stoic nod. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be praying for you both.”
“So will I.”
I’m going to pray as if the love of my life’s life depends on it. Because it does.
