Holding hands, they left the conference room and found Beck loitering in the hall.
“LuAnna at the front desk asked me to give you a message to clear out your voicemail,” he said. “Apparently, a woman called for you but it’s full. She asked specifically for you and said it had to do with one of your cold cases, but wouldn’t leave a message with LuAnna. I guess they’ll be coming out of the walls now, huh?”
“I better clear out my inbox,” she said to Matt, dropping a kiss on him.
He released her hand. “Dinner tonight? I can bring it here if you need to work late.”
Yes, indeed, I am so, so lucky.“I’ll be at your place by seven.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
They started toward the front entrance and Matt checked his own voicemail. He pulled up in mid-stride, his face suddenly going pale.
“What is it?” Taylor asked.
He slowly took the phone away from his ear, incredulousness on his face. “You’re not going to believe this, Taylor. I think we just found your sister.”
* * *
“511!” Heart slamming, Taylor jabbed her finger against the Mustang’s passenger side window. “That’s the house. The message said 511.”
Before Matt could park at the curb, Taylor swung the door open and hopped out, starting to run and then stopping.
What if…?
What if Izzy was actually inside that house?
If the caller was fucking with her, phoning in a bogus tip on Izzy’s location—God knew they’d had plenty of those—Taylor might break her FBI oath of office and murder someone.
“Taylor, wait.”
Matt grabbed hold of her, spinning her back, but nuh-uh. No way. She whipped her arm free. “No, Matt. I’m going.”
“Backup is on the way. You don’t know what we’re walking into.”
True. All the message had said was that the woman was Isabelle Sinclair. Then the line had gone dead, as if the caller had been interrupted. The caller ID was a cell phone. Registered to this address. This rundown, two-story house where the weeds choked out any possibility of vibrant flowers or healthy life.
Tears stung Taylor’s eyes. Could her sister be living in this dump? After the safety and comfort of their parents’ home? A fresh bout of rage flashed through her and she squeezed her fingers into a tight ball. “Oh, Matt. If it’s her…”
The front door of the house flew open and a woman with mousy, long, blond hair—her—stood on the inside of a storm door, alternately kicking at the glass and banging on it.
Taylor launched into a dead run.
Her feet pounded the sidewalk, feeling like hundred pound weights.Get to her!It felt like one of those dreams where your feet were caught in quicksand.
Her heel—damned shoes—caught in the dirt and Matt overtook her, sailing by and taking the rickety porch steps two at a time.
The woman smacked her hands against the Plexiglass and Matt yanked on the door as Taylor finally got free and sprinted up the steps behind him.
Inside, the woman pointed furiously. “Padlocked!” she cried.
And Taylor stood there, stock still, frozen as she stared into the same big green eyes as her own. As their mother. “Izzy!”
“I can’t get out!”
Taylor elbowed in front of Matt and kicked at the glass. “The son of a bitch locked her in.”
