Drawn Away (The Vanishing #4)

Prologue

The livestock barn at the Jackson County Fair smelled like hay, leather, manure, and sweat.

Clara loved it.

The sketchbook under her arm felt like another limb, as necessary as breathing since she’d come to Jackson County to paint the mountains.

She moved slowly down the aisle between the stalls, pausing every few feet to admire a horse or scribble a line of charcoal across the page.

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

Clara turned.

Wade Hollis stood in the next aisle over, one hand hooked in the pocket of his jeans, smile already in place.

He was older than most of the men at the fair. Broad-shouldered. Expensive boots. The kind of man who carried himself like everything in the county belonged to him.

Including, apparently, her.

“She is,” Clara said, glancing back at the mare in the stall. “Beautiful mover.”

“Wasn’t talking about the horse.”

He didn’t look at her like a woman.

He looked at her like a deed he meant to sign—checking the lines, deciding if she’d be worth the price.

Her stomach dropped.

She gave him a thin smile and stepped to the side, meaning to go around him.

He moved too.

Blocking the aisle.

Down the aisle, a girl brushing a bay gelding went still. She didn’t look up. She just… stopped.

“I should get back,” she said.

“You should stay.”

His gaze slid over her in a way that made her skin crawl. Not admiration. Ownership.

Clara tightened her grip on the sketchbook.

“Excuse me.”

He reached out and took hold of her arm.

Like he had every right in the world.

His fingers wrapped around the bare skin above her elbow, thumb rubbing once, slowly, against the inside of her arm. Revulsion flashed through her so hard she almost jerked.

“Mr. Hollis,” she said, voice flat, “take your hand off me.”

“Wade.”

“I don’t care what your name is.”

Instead of letting go, he stepped closer.

Too close.

She could smell him now—aftershave and whiskey and something stale underneath it, something that made her want to lean away. It was the smell of a man who never got his hands dirty, a heavy, oily scent that crowded out the hay and the horses.

“You know,” he said softly, “you’ve got every man in this county looking at you.”

“I doubt that.”

“I don’t.”

His hand slid down her arm to her wrist.

Then lower.

Fingers brushing the side of her waist.

Clara’s stomach turned.

She stepped back fast, but there was a stall wall behind her.

Nowhere to go.

“Stop.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I absolutely do.”

One side of his mouth tipped up.

The look on his face sent a cold ripple through her.

Because he didn’t think she meant it.

He thought because he was older and richer and used to being obeyed, she would smile eventually and let him do whatever he wanted.

“Sam Talley can’t give you much,” Wade said, stepping closer again. “You ought to think bigger than some horse farmer.”

“Move.”

“You could have a whole lot more.”

“I said move.”

He braced one hand against the wall beside her head.

The other landed at her hip.

Not gentle.

Possessive.

His fingers spread over her like he was already claiming something.

Panic and fury surged together.

“Get your hands off me.”

“Come on now, sweetheart.”

Then he grabbed her jaw.

Hard.

His fingers dug into her face, forcing her to look up at him.

And before she could twist away, he kissed her.

Not a kiss.

A violation.

His mouth crushed down over hers, wet and rough and demanding. The scrape of his stubble burned against her skin. She tasted whiskey. Tobacco.

The awful, sick certainty that he had done this before—and never once been made to stop.

For one terrible second she froze.

Then horror became rage.

She shoved him with both hands.

Hard.

He stumbled back.

Clara wiped her mouth violently with the back of her hand, like she could erase him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped, voice shaking. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”

He stared back.

Like she had embarrassed him.

“You don’t have to act like that.”

A sharp, sick laugh burst out of her.

“Like what? Like I don’t want a married man pawing at me in a livestock barn?”

His face darkened.

“You think you get to say no to me?”

“I think you’re disgusting.”

She thought he might hit her.

The look in his eyes went flat and ugly.

He stepped toward her again.

Clara pointed straight at him, every inch of her trembling with fury and disgust.

“Touch me one more time,” she said loudly, clearly, “and I will tell your wife exactly what you did.”

The words carried. Heads turned.

Ned from Moonshine Creek RV Park stood at the far end of the aisle, eyes wide. Mabel from Blackwood Winery stopped dead beside him, horror flashing across her face.

Wade’s face changed.

Color rising high in his cheeks.

“You little bitch!”

“What the hell is going on?”

Sam.

Clara turned.

He was coming down the aisle fast, dirt on his jeans, hat in one hand, anger already written all over him.

His eyes went from Clara—flushed, furious, backed against the wall—to Wade.

To Wade, standing too close.

To Wade’s hand, still half lifted toward her.

Sam didn’t even hesitate.

His fist connected with Wade’s jaw so hard Clara heard it.

Wade slammed into a stack of feed buckets. Metal crashed across the floor.

“Sam!” Clara shouted.

But it was too late.

Wade came back swinging.

The two men crashed into the aisle, boots slipping in straw and dirt, curses flying.

“Don’t you touch her!”

“You don’t tell me what to do.”

Someone yelled for help.

Someone else yelled, “Jesus Christ, that’s Wade Hollis.”

And just like that—nobody rushed in.

More people came into the barn.

Everybody saw it.

Sam finally drove Wade back against the stall wall, one hand twisted in the front of his shirt.

“If you ever put your hands on her again,” Sam said, voice low and shaking with fury, “I’ll kill you.”

For one long second, nobody moved.

Then Clara stepped forward.

“Sam.”

He was still furious.

And she saw it there—the jealousy.

The fear.

The terrible, dangerous edge of it.

“Let him go,” she said.

Sam’s throat worked.

Then he shoved Wade away.

Wade stood up and spit a thick string of bloody saliva into the dirt near Sam’s boot. He didn’t look scared. He looked pissed off that his shirt was wrinkled. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, stared at the blood on it.

His eyes found Clara.

“A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be so reckless with her future,” he said, his voice a lethal whisper. “You made a very expensive mistake.”

Then he walked out of the barn.

Clara stood there shaking.

And somewhere deep in her bones, for the first time, she was afraid.

* * *

The mountains had slipped into that strange blue-gray hour between daylight and dark by the time Clara left the fairgrounds and followed the narrow trail toward the overlook. She hadn’t gone looking for Sam. She’d come straight here instead.

The fairgrounds were miles behind her now, but she could still hear the echo of it in her head.

Sam shoving Wade Hollis backward beneath the carnival lights.

Wade laughing through blood on his mouth.

The whole county staring.

And Sam—the look on his face afterward.

Like she’d broken something in him.

Clara wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself as she stepped through the narrow opening in the trees.

The ridge opened wide before her, revealing the valley below in layers of fading blue mist and gold dusk. The mountains rose on either side like giants standing watch over the hollow below.

It was breathtaking every single time she saw it.

This place had become hers over the summer.

Her painting spot.

She’d spent hours up here with a sketchbook balanced on her knees, trying to capture the way evening light slid across the ridges.

Half a dozen pages in her sketchbook held this same view—the little plane crossing the valley again and again, its tail number scribbled in the margins because it kept nagging at her.

And lately… the plane.

Her eyes drifted automatically toward the lower valley.

The narrow strip carved between the trees sat nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. Most people in Jackson County probably didn’t even realize it existed.

But Clara had noticed things.

The same small plane appearing over and over.

Late flights.

Trucks arriving after sunset.

Strange men she didn’t recognize.

And always the same tail number painted near the rear.

N372FL.

Tonight the plane sat on the strip below.

Its propeller had already stopped turning, but the cooling engine pinged softly in the evening air.

Two trucks sat nearby.

Clara frowned slightly.

That wasn’t normal.

Movement caught her eye.

Men.

Not Wade’s ranch hands.

These men moved differently. Fast. Controlled.

One of them opened the back of a truck while another dragged something heavy toward the plane.

A tarp.

Long.

Too long.

Clara’s pulse slowed.

No…

The tarp snagged against the edge of the cargo door long enough for Clara to see a pale hand—and beneath it, layers of tight, clear plastic wound around the man’s chest and shoulders like industrial packaging.

Dead eyes. Staring at nothing.

Clara slapped both hands over her mouth.

One of the men cursed sharply.

“Move him!”

The body hit the dirt hard before they hauled it toward the plane.

Clara stumbled backward.

A branch cracked beneath her boot.

Every man below froze.

One of them turned toward the ridge.

“There!”

Fear detonated inside her.

Clara ran. Branches clawed at her sweater as she tore through the woods, half-blind with panic.

Voices erupted behind her somewhere below, but she didn’t look back.

She didn’t stop until she burst out of the trees and reached the truck.

Her hands shook as she fumbled the keys into the ignition.

She drove hard for town, tires spitting gravel, the image of that pale hand burned into her vision.

By the time she hit Main Street, the courthouse lights were glowing against the darkening sky.

* * *

Jackson County Sheriff’s Office — 1999

The station was nearly empty.

A desk fan rattled near the front counter while Sheriff Burton Scott worked through paperwork beneath the fluorescent lights.

Seven-year-old Burke sat cross-legged on the floor beside the filing cabinets with a sheriff’s notepad balanced on one knee, drawing mountains and police cruisers with a blue crayon.

Nearby, five-year-old Grant pushed two battered toy trucks across the scuffed tile floor, making quiet engine noises under his breath.

The front door burst open hard enough to make both boys jump. Grant’s toy trucks skidded to a stop, one wheel still spinning as the echo of the slam rattled the loose glass in the fan over their heads.

Burton was already on his feet before Clara reached the desk.

“Miss Vale?”

She was ghost-pale.

Breathing hard. Terrified.

Burke stared at her, his eyes already as watchful as his father’s.

Grant clutched one of the toy trucks in both hands and looked toward Burton.

Burton came around the counter fast and caught Clara gently by the arms before she lost her footing.

“Easy now,” he said. “Sit down.”

Clara collapsed into the chair beside the desk.

“I saw something,” she whispered.

The tone alone changed the room.

Burton looked toward his sons.

“Hey, boys,” he said quietly, calm but firm. “Why don’t y’all head out front with Charlene for a little while?”

Neither argued.

Burke stood first, studying Clara one last second before setting the crayon down.

Grant slid off the floor, clutching the toy truck in his fist.

“Yes sir,” Burke said.

The boys disappeared through the doorway toward the lobby, where dispatcher Charlene sat behind the radio desk.

Only after they were gone did Burton look back at Clara fully.

“What did you see?”

Clara swallowed hard.

“The ridge behind Wade Hollis’ property.”

At the mention of Wade Hollis’s name, something shifted almost imperceptibly in Burton’s face.

A tiny pause.

A tightening around the eyes.

Then it was gone.

“What exactly did you see, Clara?”

And she told him.

The plane.

The trucks.

The men.

And then—the body.

The tail number she’d sketched half a dozen times without realizing why it mattered.

N372FL.

The station went still.

Burton leaned back slowly, one hand resting against his belt.

“When did this happen?”

“Now.”

“You sure it was Hollis land?”

“Yes.” Her voice shook harder now. “I paint up there all the time. I know exactly where I was.”

Burton glanced once toward the windows.

Thinking.

Calculating.

Like a sheriff realizing something had become far bigger than a county fight between Sam Talley and Wade Hollis.

He glanced back at Clara.

“You did the right thing coming here.”

The reassurance steadied her slightly.

Burton lowered his voice.

“Now listen carefully to me. I need you to stay away from that ridge until I tell you otherwise. You understand?”

She nodded quickly.

“And don’t go wandering around those woods alone anymore.”

“I won’t.”

“You tell anybody else?”

Clara hesitated.

Then shook her head.

“No.”

“Good.”

Again—that flicker.

“Sheriff Scott…” Her eyes filled suddenly. “Please don’t tell Sam.”

Burton frowned slightly.

“Why?”

“Because he already fought with Wade tonight. Bad.” Her voice cracked. “And if Sam thinks something dangerous is happening out there, he’ll go after them himself.”

Tears slid free now.

“I can’t let something happen to him because of me.”

Burton studied her for a long second.

Then quietly:

“You love him.”

Clara glanced down.

“Yes.”

Something softened in Burton’s expression then.

The sheriff disappearing long enough for the father underneath to show through.

“Nothing’s going to happen to Sam Talley tonight,” he said gently.

From the lobby, Burke’s laugh drifted faintly through the doorway at something Charlene said to him.

Burton’s eyes flicked briefly toward the sound before returning to Clara.

“I’m going to look into this myself.”

Clara nodded shakily.

“But you go home. Lock your doors. Stay close to people you trust.”

He held her gaze.

“And if you see anything else… You come directly to me. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Clara rose unsteadily from the chair.

Burton watched her all the way to the door.

And only after she disappeared into the blue mountain dusk did the look finally settle fully onto his face.

Fear.