I can’t.
***
Once we were back at headquarters, I wave off Chase’s invitation to lunch, heading back into my office.
I spin my chair in circles, letting my gaze go unfocused and delve into my thoughts. I need to find Charlotte. I need to find a way to clear her DNA evidence. Where has Dutch gone? Is she in trouble? Do I need to add that to my list of things to worry about? Or has she gone off on a lead of her own? Then there’s the mole. Just one more fucking thing to worry about.
The room rotates in a blur as I keep spinning, so similar to my thoughts.
Agent Cooper had approached me earlier, telling me that I was welcome to take a couple of days off to fly home to inform my parents that Elizabeth’s killer has been found. I need to be the one to tell them—so far it’s not been reported by the media—but I don’t want to show up at their door with the news that he’s dead, but without news of Charlotte’s whereabouts.
And how the fuck am I supposed to find her?
Stopping the chair, I pull up to my desk, taking a moment for the room to stop twirling. Going through some paperwork, I go over a list of the children found in the house. Tommy has added notes in the margin, detailing which bodies have been collected by their respective families, and those which have yet to be claimed.
An idea forms, and I call a contact at one of the local radio stations. Hopefully, this pays off.
Chapter 38
Special Agent
Daniella “Dutch” Buchanan
Groaning, I roll over, flopping onto my back with a muffled curse. Everything hurts like a bitch. My head pounds as if I’ve been drinking tequila—which I swore off years ago—and my mouth feels like a skunk rolled over and died in it.
Smells like it too.
The ground is hard and cold beneath me, causing a shudder to ripple over my body. Dread settles in my gut, and I lick my dry lips, trying my best to open my eyes, which currently feel like it might take a couple of heavyweight champions to lift them.
“About time you woke up,” a voice rasps from nearby. I roll my head towards it, still no closer to opening my eyes.
But I’d know that voice anywhere.
“What the fuck happened?” I manage to ask despite the dryness of my throat.
“You should have been paying attention,” the voice replies. “Your daddy wants a talk with you.” The voice huffs a laugh. “One of your cousins will be here tomorrow to take you home. There’s water and food on the floor next to you. Been nice knowin’ ya, princess.”
I can hear footsteps retreating, a door closing. Moments later, a vehicle starts up, the sound of the engine quickly fading.
Patting the floor near me, it hits something cold, the sound boomeranging back to me as it echoes off the walls. Bars.
Scrubbing my hands over my eyes, I finally manage to pry them open, squinting as they come into focus. I’m in a fucking cage, like some sort of dog. Digging my heels in, I push myself backward, hauling myself into a seated position while I wait for the room to stop spinning and the black spots clouding my vision to dissipate.
Once I’m sure I can move without puking, I crawl over to the bottle of water, tearing the cap off and gulping it down, gasping for breath when I’m done. Tossing the empty bottle through the bars, I swipe my wrist over my mouth and take stock of the situation. I’m in what looks like a bedroom, in what I’m suspecting is a trailer home. The window is covered in a filthy sheet, its once vibrant floral pattern now ripped and faded.
The room shows signs of disuse; bare of furniture, the walls carry veins of black mold and cobwebs hang from the corners.
I’m not usually a queasy person, but even I’m shuddering a bit at the stains on the carpet, not at all interested in discovering what they might be.
A shadow passes the makeshift curtain, darkening the room briefly as it passes. A bird call sounds, followed by its mate, and I snap to attention, trying to see out into the hallway. Unfortunately, the door is closed halfway, so I can’t see much.
The whole trailer rattles and fear slithers down my spine, my chest tightening with dread. Whoever is out there wants in, and I’m pretty much defenseless like this.
The door to the trailer crashes open, and heavy footsteps can be heard as multiple people enter.
“Clear!” comes a male shout, followed by another as the footsteps come closer.
The door to my room crashes open with a bang, and—although I’ll only admit this upon the pain of death—a girly shriek might have escaped me as it did. A woman, about five foot five in height, with long blonde hair and dressed all in black comes striding into the room. I can imagine her with a cape billowing about her legs, the Imperial March from Star Wars proceeding her.
