The door stood ajar by two inches. I cursed under my breath.
I crossed the space in a few strides and pushed it wide. Muddy boot prints led away toward the cottonwoods, two sets. Halfway to the shadows lay a pale scrap of cloth.
Her rag.
I picked it up, fingers closing around the damp fabric, and forced myself to breathe slow.
I raised the radio. “Levi, Mason, Palmer,” I said, voice flat and steady. “We’ve got a bigger problem. Milly’s gone.”
A few minutes later, searchlights flashed through the trees. Levi and Mason hit the yard at a run, Palmer radioed in. “Don’t be a hero, Adams, I’m on my way.” There was a moment of silence. “Direction?” Palmer barked.
“South-east fence line. Two sets of prints leading toward the ridge.”
“All right.” The sheriff’s voice snapped into command. “Mason, you take the west road, Levi, the river. Adams, you follow direct. I’ll be there in eight.”
The grass was crushed where they’d fought—heel marks, knee marks, from when she must have tripped. Then the prints disappeared, replaced by tire tracks.
“Pickup,” Levi called over the radio. “Wide spacing, deep tread. Headed toward the winter barn.”
Of course, it was. It was the only barn that wasn’t watched. It was barely standing, let alone messing around on the inside. The smallest nudge could implode the whole thing. It was set to be demolished in the spring.
“Palmer,” I said. “Block the far end. I’ll cut across the interior route.”
“Careful, Adams.”
“Always.”
The further I got from the house, the more my pulse quickened. The trees thickened around me until I saw the orange pulse again. Higher off the ground. Lantern light. The old winter barn squatted at the edge of the clearing, roof half-caved.
Through the gaps between the boards, a lantern swayed. Voices drifted—one rough, the other Milly’s.
There was a slight feeling of relief before the anger kicked in. I didn’t have much, but Milly was mine, and I wasn’t about to lose her.
I crouched behind the fence post, steadied my breath, thumbed the safety off my sidearm.
“Palmer,” I whispered into the radio. “I’ve got eyes on the target building. One male voice, one female—Milly confirmed. Holding until you’re close.”
“Two minutes,” he said.
I moved in closer. Inside, Harold slammed a palm on the table. Milly flinched.
One minute, I told myself.
Then I heard her voice through the night: “You’ll never win, Harold. You don’t even know what Penny left me.” A shuffle, then, “Ahh.” Milly yelled out. Moving to get a better look, I saw her—Harold’s hand on her throat.
That was it. I’d waited long enough.
I reached for the latch.
Time to end this.
Chapter 21
The Bad Guy
Milly
The rope bit into my wrists every time I shifted. Harold had tied me to the far support post just tight enough to draw blood, but not enough that I couldn’t reach the knots. My shoulders ached, my hands were tingly, and every time I moved, the stool creaked. Every time it squeaked, Harold glanced my way.The little tattletale, I thought.
