Chapter Three
Olivia Cruz adjusted the handles of the coffee mugs on her kitchen shelf so each of her perfectly spaced mugs pointed in exactly the same direction.
The squeak of sneaker treads announced the return of her boyfriend, Lincoln Sharp, from his morning run—though there was nothing about Lincoln that looked boyish.
His eyes roamed constantly. A former police detective turned private investigator, he had a gaze that matched his name—always assessing, always suspicious.
He tugged off his black-brimmed cap. As he toed off his sneakers, he ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair, as if his buzz cut were long enough to get mussed.
He had the lean, hard build of a runner and was fitter than most people half his age.
“I have a laser level if you want to make them exactly even.”
She turned back to her open cabinet. She didn’t need Lincoln’s comment to know exactly what her perfectly positioned mugs were—precise rows of tiny soldiers she used to battle the demons she couldn’t vanquish.
She’d had enough therapy to know she controlled her environment when her memories made her feel powerless.
With a deliberate movement, she closed the cabinet.
She turned to face him and changed the subject. “How was your run?”
“Fine.” He crossed the kitchen to stand next to her and switch on the electric kettle. He reached past her, opened the cabinet, and selected a mug. After setting it on the counter, he added a green tea bag and looped the tag around the handle once. “Want to join me in a cold plunge?”
Olivia shuddered. “No, thank you. I don’t know how you bear it.”
He shrugged. “It’s good for inflammation.”
“Still a hard pass for me.” Olivia was mostly disciplined about diet and exercise, but she was never going to willingly submerge her body in ice-cold water regardless of its anti-inflammatory properties. She shivered again at the thought.
“Why don’t you let me go with you today?”
Olivia stiffened at the suggestion, not because the idea was abhorrent—no, the opposite.
She’d love to take him with her. But it was far too easy to rely on Lincoln to ease her anxiety.
She wouldn’t allow herself to become over-reliant.
The more she let him be her protector, the more she would want it.
As it was, she struggled with being alone in her house at night.
Prior to her abduction, she’d loved her little bungalow and had felt very safe in it.
She’d moved to Scarlet Falls in upstate New York when she’d inherited the property from an aunt, at the same time she’d changed careers.
The house was nothing like the modern loft she’d previously rented, but the little house had grown on her as she’d renovated and painted, made it her own—made it her home.
Yet she no longer felt secure in it. Her kidnapper hadn’t taken her life, but he’d stolen a piece of her, and she was determined to take it back.
She forced her shoulders to relax. “I need to do this myself.”
He contemplated her for a few seconds, the deepening of the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes somehow making him even more attractive. “I appreciate that, but the offer stands.”
“You have a full schedule. Aren’t you and Lance tied up all day with your case?”
“Yes, but you come first. If you need me, I’ll cancel.” His tone suggested he regretted making plans with his younger partner, Lance Kruger.
Olivia’s heart warmed. So tempting. No! She mentally rolled her eyes. Do not give in to his charm. “Lance needs you to watch his back. I won’t be alone, and I shouldn’t need a security escort for a simple drive into the countryside.”
Lincoln’s gaze never wavered. “To the place where you were held captive.”
Her heartbeat stumbled, and she broke eye contact. “It’s been three years . . .”
“I don’t think that’s something you just get over.”
She raised her chin and met his gaze again. “If I never step beyond my comfort zone, I will never get over it.”
“I shouldn’t have made plans for today.” He’d been with her for the first two terrible anniversaries. But his current investigation had heated up over the past week, and he needed to stay on it or risk losing momentum.
“I told you to.” Olivia usually wrote about crimes inflicted on other people.
She sympathized with victims and their families, but as an outsider, she could be objective, one step removed from the emotions, able to visualize them, but always at an arm’s length.
Today, she would be on the other side of the interview, recounting her own experience as a victim for a friend’s true crime podcast—You Won’t Believe This.
She hoped that going public with all the details—forcing herself to recount the trauma in a logical, clinical, and public fashion—would somehow purge it from her soul.
No more secrets. No more holding back. No more wondering if the person she was talking to knew her truth.
It would all be out there. “I need to do this—without you. I need to be independent. It’s something I have to prove to myself, that I can function—that he didn’t take something from me that I’ll never get back.
I can’t explain it any better than that. ”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head.
“I get it, and it makes sense.” He had more faith in her than she did.
For a few seconds, she leaned into him, absorbing his body heat, as if she could borrow some of his confidence.
But no, she needed to find it for herself.
Some things had to be acquired the hard way.
“I haven’t been able to write since.” And there was her long-term fear.
He frowned down at her. “If you need money . . .”
“It’s not just about the money.” Her book sales hadn’t stopped, but they had leveled off, which was normal.
“I won’t starve, and I inherited this house, but that’s not the whole issue.
I’m a writer. It’s more than what I do. It’s who I am, who I’ve been my entire adult life.
Even before that. I was the editor of my high school newspaper.
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t looking for the truth and writing about it. ”
“You’re more than any job.”
She pressed away. “Thank you, but I’m not ready to give it up just yet.” She wouldn’t let her kidnapper take away her career too. Though the fact that her abduction had been orchestrated by her literary agent as a PR stunt didn’t help. Olivia hadn’t even looked for another agent yet.
“So you’ll work it out, but even if you can’t, I’m here for you, for whatever you need.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes remained worried when he turned back to his steeping tea. He opened the fridge and gathered the ingredients for his morning green protein shake.
Her phone beeped from its charging stand. She grabbed it and unlocked the screen. Zoe had sent her a message the night before. Olivia kept her phone on the do-not-disturb setting at night to minimize disruptions to her already restless sleep. She opened the text. Meet at 10. Need to Talk.
Olivia glanced at the time. “She wants to meet a half hour early. I’d better go.”
A memory seared her brain. Running barefoot over rough ground, tree limbs slicing her skin, her lungs tight. Not enough air. The flashback lasted just a few seconds but left her palms clammy and sweating.
Stuffing greens into the blender, Lincoln eyed her. “Are you OK?”
“Fine,” she lied. Then she wiped her palms on her jeans, crossed the room, and kissed him.
He kissed her back. He glanced down at her brown suede ankle boots and shook his head. “You’re wearing those into the woods? They’re heels.”
“It’s a low heel. Very practical.” For her. Olivia admired the soft chocolate-colored suede boots for a moment. The kitten heel was low, and she’d bought a crossbody bag to match. “And I won’t be traipsing through the woods in them. I’m bringing my hiking boots.”
He shook his head again but said nothing more. He owned one pair of dress shoes and wore either running shoes or boots on a daily basis.
Olivia checked the charge on her power bank and tossed it into her purse, along with her electronic tablet.
Then she grabbed her extra jacket, the hiking boots, and her backpack.
Before she’d turned to true crime writing eight years before, she’d been an investigative journalist. She always packed a change of clothes, water, snacks, and a phone battery charger.
She also kept an emergency road kit and basic tool bag in her car at all times.
Leads on a story could change in a heartbeat.
She’d always liked to be ready to go wherever the trail led.
Her true crime writing usually focused on old crimes.
Research tended to be slower paced and planned—more predictable and less in the moment. But the habit had stuck.
Being kidnapped and nearly killed had only intensified her need for vigilance and preparation.
She slung her bag over one shoulder and left the house without a backward glance.
She set her backpack in the rear of the Prius, next to her gym bag.
Then she slid behind the wheel and drove.
With every mile that rolled beneath her tires, she felt her heartbeat climb.
By the time the lake came into view, she could feel her pulse thrumming through her body.
No sign of Zoe’s Jeep. Olivia pulled to the side of the road.
Her stomach twisted, and she regretted the small container of yogurt she’d managed to get down for breakfast.
He’s in prison. There’s nothing to fear.
She checked the time on her phone. A minute after ten. Where was Zoe?