“Poor thing.” The woman studies me dispassionately. “You look dead on your feet.” There is the strangest disconnect between her tone and the words she is saying. My brain struggles to reconcile them as my body struggles to stay standing. Then she says, “Okay now, let’s move.”
When I only stand there, swaying, she pokes me with the prod, and I flinch away before I realize she hasn’t armed it. Not yet.
“That’s it.” Again the encouraging words are delivered flatly, and she looks at me as if the prod isn’t long enough. “Zeus, fuss.”
The dog comes to her, a handbreadth from her knee, and the two of them move in unison around me. Then the woman pokes me in the back. “Keep walking. I’ll tell you where to go.”
A whirligig of fear spirals in my stomach, and I resist walking toward what could very well be my own death. But no. All she had to do to kill me was leave me out here alone, and starvation or dehydration would have done the job. I try to speak, to ask what she wants, but my dry throat fails and I produce only a rough cough.
“Zeus, brummen,” she says, and the dog starts a low, rumbling growl.
Painfully, I force out the words, “What do you want?”
In answer Zeus growls louder, no longer a rumble but a revving engine, as if he is building to action. Another brisk command—“Ruhig”—and the sound stops abruptly. This dog is so big, so well trained, like a hundred-pound extension of the woman’s body.
I don’t have the strength to do anything except walk.
Without another challenge, I let the woman and her wolf-dog force me through the forest. Perhaps I don’t have much of a choice, but I choose to allow this.
Moving takes all my energy, so I couldn’t argue or fight with her even if I dared. But my mind is churning, trying to solve this puzzle. She knows my name, and the mere thought makes me stumble against a tree trunk. My hand is already scraped up, and it stings.
She says, “Careful,” but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. She just wants me to keep moving forward.
I go as slowly as I dare, picking my way across the slippery mix of moss and pine needles and fallen leaves. The pain has cleared my mind like a jolt of caffeine, and I pluck the most likely story from the swirling possibilities. Money. If Glenn pays, or my parents, I can go home. If money can solve this, I’ll pay anything, do anything, sign any papers, sell any assets, even spin straw into gold.
But panic pinwheels faster and faster in my gut.
My brain isn’t interested in false comfort or fantasy. This woman striding through the forest with her gray wolf-dog isn’t making any effort to disguise herself, and she hasn’t covered her face with a mask. Maybe she hasn’t hurt me, maybe she doesn’t want me dead, but she’s not afraid I’ll identify her.
Like a bird in a snare, I’m trapped, and she doesn’t intend to let me go.
CHAPTER
8
ZOE
I’M A SLOW reader, and I’m only a fourth of the way into Bloody Heart, Wild Woods when we land at Baltimore/Washington International airport. As I pull my carry-on from the overhead compartment, an idea hits me. International. I could walk up to any ticket counter and be gone.
Despite the people streaming off the Jetway and veering around me, I stand still and look up at the arrival and departure boards.
In less than an hour, I could be on a plane to London or Prague or Mexico City. If I had a valid passport. But Los Angeles and Anchorage and Honolulu are still options. I could fly away from all the shame about lying, all the fear about being framed, and all my mixed-up feelings about Ava. That’s what I want, so badly. To slough off Zoe and go where I can’t be found.
I would leave, if I didn’t have Andrew and Emma wrapped around my heart. Wherever I flee, I’ll bring my love and longing for them with me. Houston, that’s the only place I want to go. Home.
I won’t be here long. I’ll tell these new detectives the same thing I told Detective Valdez. And if there’s any doubt, I’ll hang out just long enough for Ava to get tired of this stupid game. If she isn’t back in a week, swear to God I’ll find her myself.
Some asshole wheels his stacked bags—a bulky carry-on topped with a laptop bag and a rolled coat—right over my foot. I yelp, but he doesn’t even turn around. My own suitcase isn’t heavy enough to bother pulling the handle out. Maybe I’m tempting fate, but I hope I won’t be staying long enough to need a bigger suitcase. I’m traveling light. At least when it comes to luggage.
Then I see an older man in a suit jacket with a gun on his hip watching me, and I recognize him as the detective who’s been sent to meet me. Despite how chill and trusting Detective Valdez seemed, she escorted me all the way to my departure gate. Now her counterpart is here at Arrivals to pick me up. Andrew might know Sheriff Bob, I might have a sort-of alibi, but that just meant I got to fly alone. It doesn’t mean I have an opportunity to flee.
This policeman has gray patches at his temples and the kind of crow’s-feet that come from smiling. He looks like someone’s grandfather. As he raises his hand in a wave to me, I see a well-worn wedding ring on his finger.
“Zoe Hallett?” he asks, as I bow to the inevitable and approach him.
I nod, and he holds his hand out to shake mine.
“Detective Davies. Any luggage?”
“Just a carry-on and a personal item.” I heft my trim black suitcase to illustrate, like I’m trying to prove that every word I say is true. Ava’s book makes my shoulder bag feel heavier than usual.
“I’ll be taking you to the station. We’ll go over your story again on this end.” He motions for me to follow him and we make our way through the airport, his gait somehow a casual stride that moves quickly.
I’m hustling to keep up. I don’t want this man to think I’m afraid or to know how angry I am with Ava. At this point, I can almost believe her disappearance is simply some publicity stunt and those emails and calls were just Ava dragging me into her drama. Trying to conceal my breathlessness, I ask, “Has there been any news?”
He doesn’t turn his head to look at me. “Nothing new.”
I don’t know if this is the truth or if that’s all he can say to someone who may be a suspect. I asked about my sister, didn’t I? That’s what an innocent person would do. And I am innocent … of Ava’s disappearance, anyway.
Detective Davies loosens up a little as we approach the exit. Maybe he’s also relieved to be leaving the noise and chaos behind. Maybe he wants me to relax. “I’m not sure you’re going to be warm enough in that little jacket. It’s gotten cool early here. What’s the weather like down there in Texas?”
“Hot,” I tell him. “Sometimes it’s eighty degrees, even in January.” I’m not going to relax, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He’s left his car right in the loading/unloading passenger lane. A perk of law enforcement. It’s not a cop car with a cage in the back, and the detective holds the front passenger door open for me. “Well, if you get cold on the ride over, I might have an extra sweat shirt in back. Throw your suitcase there too. After we finish at the station, you can always pick something else up. You’ll be going home with your folks?”