She felt like sobbing, too, right about now. A month. An entire damned month had passed since her daughter had been taken prisoner, and she was going crazy with worry. Hank had been calling with weekly updates, but he never had anything useful to say, save for the fact that he was “working on it.”
Working on what? She wanted her daughter home, safe and sound. And she wanted it now. As far as the professors at the university knew, Lana was visiting her brother in Montana, and the faculty hadn’t questioned it, which meant the media had no idea Lana was even missing. That was another reason Hank wanted to keep the police out of it, as filing an official report meant the press would immediately get wind of the situation. That had been fine by her—two weeks ago. Now she just wanted to call every media outlet out there in hopes that plastering Lana’s face all over the world would provide them with a lead, but Hank had convinced her to stay silent. For now.
If something wasn’t done, though—and soon—Sarah had already decided to take matters into her own hands.
As if on cue, her cell phone began to ring. She fumbled in the pocket of the long cardigan sweater she’d thrown on before coming outside. Whipping the phone to her ear, she said, “Have you found her?”
Hank’s voice was strained. “Not yet, but I think we’ve figured out where she’s being held.”
Hope soared through her. “Where?” she demanded.
“In the mountains, north of Sacramento. Remember those clues I told you about, the words she spoke during the calls? Well, my bodyguard Gage figured out where they must be keeping her.”
“Did you inform the FBI?”
Silence greeted her ears.
“Damn it, Hank! You didn’t call them, did you?”
He sounded guarded as he said, “There are things at work here that you don’t understand, darling. I’m doing my best.”
Right, because his best had always served them well in the past. Sarah almost wished her husband were standing in front of her, so she could strangle him. She’d heard from her son Dylan that one of Hank’s mistresses had attacked him in Maple Cove, but even now—or maybe especially now—she couldn’t muster up any concern or sympathy. Hank Kelley deserved what he got.
“I’m going to call Jim,” she said decisively, referring to their youngest son, who was currently on an overseas assignment with his Special Forces unit.
“No.” Hank’s tone brooked no argument. “Leave the boy out of this. I’ve already sent someone to get Lana.”
She faltered. “Who did you send?”
“A mercenary, one of the best in the world.” Encouragement rang from the other end of the line. “He’s going to find her, Sarah, and he’s going to bring her home safely. I promise you that.”
She drew in a long breath, fixing her gaze on the dark water ahead. “Okay,” she said, her voice soft and lacking the confidence her husband seemed to be feeling. “Just get our baby home, Hank. Please.”
“I will,” he vowed.
Sarah ended the connection and tucked the phone into her pocket. Then she wrapped her arms around her chest and slowly walked back to the house.
Okay, so soon was a relative term, Lana decided after two more weeks had passed and the truth about the baby had yet to reach Deacon’s ears. But she’d tried. Each time he came into the room brandishing another delicious meal, she came close to revealing the pregnancy. Once, she’d even babbled on about what a lively baby she’d been, hoping it would provide a smooth interlude into “maybe the baby we’re having will be lively, too.”
But the words refused to reach the surface, and Deacon’s gruff, aloof demeanor hadn’t helped any. He’d shut down on her again. Ever since the kiss, he kept her at arm’s length. The afternoon walks continued, but they lacked any and all discussion. She’d run out of stories to tell him, so now they walked in silence, while Le Clair fumed on the porch—when he wasn’t taking off for days at a time.
Le Clair’s frequent absences had begun to worry Lana. What was going on in the real world? Why was she still here?
It pained her to admit it, but evidently the clues she’d tried giving her father had gone unnoticed. Somehow she doubted her family was up in a helicopter searching these mountains. She would’ve heard the whir of rotors overhead, and besides, it wouldn’t take two weeks to comb the entire area. There were only a handful of accessible locations near Sacramento, which meant that her father hadn’t picked up on the word capital and if he had, he hadn’t connected it with California.
She’d been a prisoner for more than a month, and with each day that passed, hope began slipping away. She tried clinging to it, squeezing it between her fingers before she lost it completely, but every hour, every minute, scissors of fear hacked away at that ribbon of hope.
“I’m going to die here,” she whispered into the darkness.
The sun had just set, and Deacon had already taken away her dinner tray. That meant she got to spend the rest of the night in this room, alone. The papers and charcoal were abandoned on the desk. She’d given up on sketching days ago, no longer able to muster up any creativity.