hair was ash blonde and straightened, her face carefully made up, her sexily bold, thick eyebrows were plucked to a narrow, delicate line, her lips were lined and painted a gleaming pink. She wore designer clothes. Extremely high heels.
She looked like a trophy wife. Smiling, but brittle. Tense. Trapped.
Abducted? The fuck?
A woman did not fake her own abduction from a life of high-profile luxury unless something seriously shitty had happened.
Nate buzzed the apartment. He got no answer, but the entryway door was unlocked. Someone must have let it fall to rest, but hadn’t pulled it to.
It definitely had not been Nate. He couldn’t leave a door unlocked if he wanted to. He ran upstairs and knocked on the door.
“Hey, Elisa?” he called. “I have info for you.” He paused, listening through the door. “Someone is looking for you ,” he went on. “Guy by the name of Gilbert Clemens is running around out there, asking questions. Does that name ring a bell?”
Still nothing. If she were in there, her husband’s name would have gotten a rise out of her for sure. He reached out, and gingerly tested the knob.
The door opened—and his stomach dropped.
The place had been torn apart. The paintings were torn down and scattered over the floor. The junk drawer in the kitchen had been dumped out, the kitchen drawers upended, the stuff on the counter had been swept off onto the floor, the cupboards and pantry yanked open, their contents pulled out. Not that there had been much in them. Didn’t look like Elisa cooked in here. She’d eaten at the café.
In the bathroom, the contents of the medicine cabinet lay in the sink. In the bedroom, every drawer was yanked out. A suitcase was open, its contents dragged out and strewn around the room. Art supplies. A few articles of clothing.
Someone had tossed the place. But had she been here when they did?
Fuck. He should never have left to rent that car. He should have stayed to cover her. Called for backup. Taken all of it more seriously, more urgently. Fuck.
Back in the kitchen, he saw an envelope on the floor, and a crumpled letter. He picked it up. Someone had broken the seal on the envelope, read it, and tossed it.
Demi,
I’m so sorry I had to go with no explanation. I had no choice. Being your friend was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I’ll treasure the memory forever. Please tell everyone goodbye for me.
It was beautiful. Love you always.
Elisa
She might still have that burner in her pocket. He’d put traces on the phones, after what had happed to the Trasks and their girlfriends.
He could log into it on his laptop and see if she’d caught a bus out of town. Or if she’d been dragged away by Clemens.
Either way, he had to catch her. Fast.
10
Shit. The bus was stopping again. This time at a little nowhere town called Baird’s Corner. Elisa pressed her hands to her eyes, swallowing over the ache in her throat as some people got off and others got on. It had started to rain. Or snow. The sky couldn’t seem to decide which.
While on the run, she could only sleep in a moving bus. Hotel rooms felt like death traps. Buses were better, until they stopped moving. Then her eyes popped open like an electrical wire was being held to her body.
“Elisa.”
The low voice made her jerk violently in her seat. She looked to see Nate standing there in the aisle, still in his gray suit and overcoat. His eyes blazed with intensity.
“Nate! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Quick.”
She shrank back. “No, Nate,” she said. “Back off. Please. Go home.”
“Please.” His dark eyes were full of intensity. “You’re Louisa Roarke, and you’re running from your husband, Gil Clemens. Running for your life. Am I right?”
She gazed at him, openmouthed. “How…but…”
“I saw him in Shaw’s Crossing this morning. He tossed your apartment. I was afraid that he’d already taken you. He was looking for something in there. I saw him asking Willow at the Bakery Café who did the chalk drawings. He’s on to you. And he’s right behind you.”
“Oh God,” she whispered. “How…?”
“You won’t stay ahead of him on this bus,” he went on. “It goes forty miles an hour at best on this road, and there’s freezing rain today. He’ll be on you before you get two more stops. Get off with me and