Chapter 12
GRANT
The woman who isn’t my wife lies before me, moaning in a crumpled heap.
I stare at her feeling completely gutted as my head spins in circles.
If this woman is here, what does it mean for Avery?
Is she hurt? Is she dead? Is she locked away in a cage somewhere scared and alone, wondering why I haven’t come for her yet? And, Jesus, is the baby okay?
I rub my forehead. Why would they even do this if all they wanted was the money? They have it all now. So why don’t I have my wife?
I don’t have the answers, but maybe this woman does. I grab her shoulders and give her a gentle shake. “Hey, can you hear me?”
She winces, and her eyelids slowly flicker open.
She blinks and fights for focus. Her pupils are dilated, at least twice as large as they should be.
She’s injured, probably concussed, but I don’t have time to baby her.
I need to know what she knows, and I need to know right fucking now.
“Who are you?” I ask, as she squints at me and shields her eyes.
“Where … am I?”
“It’s hard to explain. First, I need to know who you are and why you aren’t my wife. Then I’ll tell you where you are.”
“Your wife?” she parrots groggily.
I grind my teeth together. It’s like I’m speaking Mandarin.
I want to slap her and scream for her to focus.
I want to shake her until she tells me everything she knows.
But I can’t. She’s dazed, in shock. I can tell by the way her irises are swimming drunkenly through the whites of her eyes as she looks up at me like I’m nothing more than a waking dream.
I exhale long and slow and study her. From across the clearing, she looked exactly like Avery.
She has the same slim build, the same cinnamon red hair.
She’s even wearing Avery’s clothes—a black crop top and purple yoga pants—along with her shoes, a black and white pair of Merrells.
There’s no arguing this woman is a carbon copy of my wife, especially from a distance.
But this close, the illusion shatters. Instead of Avery’s delicate cheeks and slender chin, this woman has a weak jaw and a face that is far rounder than my wife’s.
A heavy pair of frown lines tug at the corners of her lips, and her forehead is peppered with sunspots.
She’s older than Avery too—somewhere in her early forties if I were to guess. And her eyes are brown, not green.
“Here,” I say, leaning forward. “Let me help you up.” Her eyes widen at my touch, and she scoots back like she’s just now seeing me for the first time. She looks dazed—no, more than dazed. She looks drugged.
“Calm down,” I say, flashing her my palms. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Who … who are you?” she asks, squinting at me. “What do you want?”
“My name is Grant Wilson. I’m looking for my wife, Avery. She was abducted this morning. I thought you were her.”
Her brow crinkles in confusion. “Wait, what? Why would you think that?”
“Because you look like her, and you’re wearing her clothes.”
“What are you talking about?” She drops her gaze, and her eyes widen again as she takes them in. “Why would I be … oh …” She trails off, her hand drifting toward her temple. “God, my head is killing me. What happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I … don’t remember anything.”
Her grimace deepens, like the mere act of thinking hurts. The panic in my chest swells. I need to find out what this woman knows, and I need to find out now. But I can’t scare her any more than she already is, or she’ll shut down.
“Okay,” I say. “How about you start from the beginning. What’s the last thing you can remember?”
Her eyes unfocus, and she gazes somewhere over my shoulder. “I was on my evening jog near … near the park by my house and I heard this sound. An engine, I think. Something about it was …”
“Off?”
She nods. “Yes. But I wasn’t really paying attention.
I had my earbuds in. I was jogging in place at an intersection when …
” She closes her eyes. “… when this van stopped right next to me, and—” Her eyes snap open again and go wide.
“Oh god, I think I was kidnapped. Do you have a phone? I need to call the police.”
A circuit breaker blows in my head. The police.
Gunn. My gaze rips toward the thicket of trees in search of the man, but he’s not there.
All I see are branches and shadow. I spin a one-eighty toward the pile of boulders at the top of the road where I passed Officer Holston driving in.
But he isn’t there, either. There’s just road, rocks, and sky. And absolutely nothing else.
What the fuck is happening?
“Are you okay?”
Startled, I turn back to the woman. “Yeah, fine.”
“Your phone?” she prompts again with her voice trembling.
“Oh, right.” I dig the burner from my pocket and tap the screen. Nothing happens. It’s dead. “Shit,” I mutter, showing her.
Her face crumbles. “I need to call my family. They have to be worried sick.”
“We’ll find a phone, I promise. What’s your name? You still haven’t told me.”
Her eyes glaze over again, like she’s having trouble remembering. “Elizabeth—Liz Gleason.”
“Liz, who was with you in the van?”
“Men with masks on.”
“How many?”
“I—I don’t remember.” She breathes faster, a tear cutting over her cheek. “All I know is I was pulled into the van and someone stuck a … a needle in my arm. And then I woke up here. That’s it.”
She’s shaking now, rocking in place. I won’t be able to push her much further. If I do, she’ll shut down completely. But I do have to push some, because this woman is literally the only link I have left to Avery.
“Where do you live, Liz? Is your house close?”
She sniffs. “I don’t know. I live near the golf course.”
The golf course? I scour my memory of the town and come up with nothing. I don’t think Ouray has a golf course. If it does, I haven’t seen it.
My eyes narrow. “Which golf course?”
“Redlands.”
A question takes shape in my head, and my stomach drops at what I think might be the answer. “Where is Redlands Golf Course?”
“It’s off High Desert Road, right next to Ocotillo. It’s—”
“No, which city?”
She pauses, frowns. “Grand Junction.”
The name tumbles through my head like a boulder. Grand Junction. Grand Junction is nearly two hours away. This woman isn’t even from here. Oh fuck.
“What?” Liz asks, taking note of the change in my expression.
“You’re in Ouray.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Ouray?”
“Yes.” I rock back on my heels. “I need you to think very carefully. Do you remember anything else? Anything at all from the moment they took you until now?”
Her eyes flutter and she swallows. She looks at the ground and shakes her head. “No. I wish I did. But there’s nothing.”
I can’t move. Can’t focus. What the hell am I going to do?
Liz issues a soft sob and wipes her nose. The nostrils are pink. “Can you help me up, please? I can’t stand with these things on.”
It takes me a second to understand what she means, and then I realize she’s talking about the zip ties binding her wrists.
“Of course,” I say, bending to help her to her feet. “Are you good to walk? I have a car right over here.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Where?” she asks without moving.
“What you said earlier is right. We need to find the police.”