Chapter Twenty-Seven
Grace surfaced through layers of heavy fog into absolute silence.
For a few disoriented seconds, she lay still, her thoughts sluggish and disconnected.
Her mouth felt dry enough to crack, and a dull ache throbbed behind her eyes.
The pounding in her head reminded her of the rare mornings after one too many glasses of wine, though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hungover.
What on earth did I drink last night? And how much?
The thought barely formed before unease prickled through her.
She tried to roll onto her side and reach for her pillow, but her body refused to cooperate. Her arms wouldn’t move. Neither would her legs.
A cold rush of awareness cut through the haze—this wasn’t her bed. She was lying on a hard table.
Her breath caught as panic surged. She jerked against whatever held her, and a rope chafing her ankles and wrists answered her struggle.
No!
Her pulse slammed against her throat as she blinked hard, forcing her vision to clear.
The room around her swam into focus in fragments.
A bare bulb hanging overhead, stark white light glaring down at her.
Cabinets lining the walls. Shelves crowded with supplies she couldn’t make out through the lingering blur.
There were no windows. No sound beyond the frantic rasp of her own breathing.
She yanked against the restraints, twisting and pulling with everything she had, but the ropes bit into her skin and held fast.
Her throat constricted.
“Help!” The word tore free before she could think. “Somebody, help! Please! Help!”
Her voice bounced off the walls and came back hollow.
No answering footsteps. No voice. Nothing.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she screamed again, and again, each cry scraping her raw throat. The dryness in her mouth made her cough, and she swallowed against the burning.
How did this happen?
The lot behind her clinic flashed through her mind in jagged pieces—the dumpster lid crashing shut, arms locking around her, and the sickly sweet smell flooding her senses.
Her stomach twisted. Someone had drugged her. But who? And where was she?
She strained to listen, desperate for some clue. Traffic. Voices. Music. Anything.
Silence pressed in from every direction. The absence of sound terrified her almost as much as the restraints. Wherever she was, it was isolated enough that no one had heard her.
A sob caught in her chest.
Did Sean know? Had Tim realized she’d been gone too long? Had Sean shown up and found her car still sitting in the lot?
Please let him know.
Please let him be looking for me.
Fresh panic drove her to fight harder. She thrashed against the restraints until her muscles burned and her wrists throbbed. The ropes tightened with every desperate pull, but nothing gave. Her chest heaved with the effort, her lungs burning as she fought for air.
At last, her strength gave out. Her body sagged against the unforgiving surface beneath her, trembling from exhaustion. Tears tracked into her hair as she stared up at the harsh bulb glaring overhead.
The silence that followed felt suffocating.
Closing her eyes, she pictured Sean’s face—his crooked smile, the fierce determination that always burned in his eyes when something mattered.
When she mattered.
A shaky breath slipped past her lips.
“Please, Sean.” Her voice barely carried. “Please be my hero and find me.”
Sean barreled into the pharmacy and barely registered the startled faces that turned toward him. Brian, Lynch, and Rafe stormed in after him, their combined presence enough to freeze every employee and customer in place.
The drive from Whisper had taken ten brutal minutes.
After Brian radioed their destination to the unit trailing them, Lynch had thrown on his lights and siren and surged ahead, clearing traffic all the way to the pharmacy up the street from the hospital. Even without the escort, Sean would have ignored every speed limit and stoplight.
Every passing second felt like one more slipping away from Grace.
Clutching the photo printout, he vaulted over the pharmacy counter and landed in the work area. A female pharmacist wearing a white coat gasped. Another woman—likely a tech—let out a startled cry that died the instant Sean shoved the photo toward her.
“Who is this?”
“Sean.” Brian’s sharp warning came from the opposite side of the counter. “Easy.”
He flashed his credentials toward the trembling woman, his voice steady in a way Sean couldn’t manage. “Ma’am, I’m Special Agent Brian Malone with the State Bureau of Investigation. Can you tell us who the man in the photo is?”
The tech’s gaze darted between the four law enforcement officers surrounding her, her face draining of color.
Sean thrust the picture closer, every nerve in his body screaming for answers. It took every ounce of control not to bark the demand again.
Before she could respond, the pharmacist stepped forward and rested a hand on her coworker’s arm, guiding her aside so she could get a better look at the image. “That’s George.”
The name sliced through Sean. “George who?”
“Wallace. George Wallace. He’s a pharmacist here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”
“Where does he live, ma’am?” Brian asked.
“I—I don’t know.” She glanced toward the tech. “Sherry, do you know?”
When Sherry gave a panicked shake of her head, the pharmacist pointed toward the office behind Sean. “His address is on file. If you let me through, I can get it.”
He stepped aside at once. The movement brought him too close to Sherry, and she flinched. Awareness cut through the haze of adrenaline. He forced himself to rein in the desperation clawing through him and offered what he hoped resembled reassurance. “I’m sorry. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Her only response was a jerky nod.
Sean followed the pharmacist into the cramped office. Filing cabinets lined one wall, and the stale scent of paper and toner hung in the air. Behind him, the others crowded the narrow hallway outside the open door.
The woman pulled open a drawer, thumbed through a stack of folders, and selected one near the back. She slid the top page free and angled it so they could both read.
Her finger landed on the address.
“Six-one-zero Park Terrace, in the Forest Glen condominiums.”
Sean was about to turn and relay it when something above the listing caught his eye. Another address that had been crossed out.
His pulse kicked up. “Did he move recently?”
“Yes. A few months ago. He moved here from Pennsylvania after his aunt died about six months ago. From what he said, her house needed a lot of renovation before he could live there, so he’s staying at the condo while he fixes it himself. That top address should be the house.”
The pieces snapped together in Sean’s mind. A secluded house. Renovations. Privacy. The kind of place a predator would choose.
He shoved past the others into the hallway. “Thirty-eight Pelican Lane, Evermont.” His voice cracked like a whip as he looked at Lynch. “Send units to Forest Glen just in case, but my money’s on Evermont.”
A grim certainty settled over him. And if his instincts were right, Grace was there right now—terrified, and counting on him to get there before George Wallace had the chance to do whatever sick nightmare he’d planned next.