“I—I don’t know.” She glanced toward the tech. “Sherry, do you know?”
When Sherry gave a panicked shake of her head, the pharmacist pointed toward the office behind Sean. “His address is on file. If you let me through, I can get it.”
He stepped aside at once. The movement brought him too close to Sherry, and she flinched. Awareness cut through the haze of adrenaline. He forced himself to rein in the desperation clawing through him and offered what he hoped resembled reassurance. “I’m sorry. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Her only response was a jerky nod.
Sean followed the pharmacist into the cramped office. Filing cabinets lined one wall, and the stale scent of paper and toner hung in the air. Behind him, the others crowded the narrow hallway outside the open door.
The woman pulled open a drawer, thumbed through a stack of folders, and selected one near the back. She slid the top page free and angled it so they could both read.
Her finger landed on the address.
“Six-one-zero Park Terrace, in the Forest Glen condominiums.”
Sean was about to turn and relay it when something above the listing caught his eye. Another address that had been crossed out.
His pulse kicked up. “Did he move recently?”
“Yes. A few months ago. He moved here from Pennsylvania after his aunt died about six months ago. From what he said, her house needed a lot of renovation before he could live there, so he’s staying at the condo while he fixes it himself. That top address should be the house.”
The pieces snapped together in Sean’s mind. A secluded house. Renovations. Privacy. The kind of place a predator would choose.
He shoved past the others into the hallway. “Thirty-eight Pelican Lane, Evermont.” His voice cracked like a whip as he looked at Lynch. “Send units to Forest Glen just in case, but my money’s on Evermont.”
A grim certainty settled over him. And if his instincts were right, Grace was there right now—terrified, and counting on him to get there before George Wallace had the chance to do whatever sick nightmare he’d planned next.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
George muttered under his breath as he strode back up the driveway toward the detached garage, irritation prickling beneath his skin with every step. He’d been gone far longer than he’d intended.
Mrs. Pennington had tested the limits of his patience yet again.
First, it had been the burned-out hallway bulb. Then she’d noticed a dripping faucet and insisted he take a look. After that came the request to haul her Easter decorations into the attic. By the time he’d climbed back down through the trapdoor, dust clinging to his clothes and cobwebs brushing his face, he’d come dangerously close to shoving her up there and sealing the hatch behind her.
Then she’d asked if he’d mind dragging her garbage bins to the curb.
Of course she had.
He’d smiled and agreed because that was what helpful neighbors did, all while imagining how peaceful the street would be if she simply stopped existing.
One day, perhaps.
The thought soothed some of his aggravation as he reached the garage. There were far more satisfying ways to rid himself of it all, and they waited upstairs.
He stepped inside, slid the deadbolt into place, and headed for the staircase. Taking the steps two at a time, he sorted through his keyring until he found the one for the upstairs lock.
The moment he opened the door, a scream pierced the room. “Help! Somebody! Help!”
George slammed the door shut behind him and turned the lock. The sound scraped across his nerves.
Crossing the room in three quick strides, he backhanded Grace across the face. “Be quiet.”
Her head snapped to the side. Tears sprang to her eyes as she stared up at him, her breathing ragged. “Who—who are you? Why are you doing this?”
He let the question hang there as he studied her. Fear had transformed her face. Gone was the composed physical therapist with the polished smile and calm confidence. In her place lay someone small, vulnerable, and helpless—exactly as she should be.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” he said, his voice low. “And your last.”
