Torn - Cynthia Eden Page 0,114

close that shit down.”

“The case is closed now,” Victoria said, giving a quick nod.

Dace glanced toward the interrogation room. Matthew had already been taken out. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m in the right place . . .”

Asher joined their little group. “Plane will be ready to leave within the hour.”

Dace’s brows rose. “Another case?”

Asher slanted a quick glance at Victoria and Wade. “According to the boss, those two get a vacation. Maybe a honeymoon.”

Because I said yes.

“But my sister and I are about to get a crash course on all things LOST,” Asher added. “Time for us to jump in with both feet.”

Dace shook Asher’s hand. “Good luck to you.”

The case was closed. The plane waited. Time to go, but . . .

“We could always use another good team member,” Victoria said to Dace. Because he hadn’t given up on Kennedy. Or Melissa.

And he hadn’t revealed my secrets, either.

Surprise flashed in the detective’s eyes.

“If you ever think about getting into the private sector,” Wade added, “you should give us a call.”

Dace laughed, but his gaze held speculation. “I’m not a freaking Navy SEAL. I doubt I’m the kind of guy your boss would want to hire—­”

“Actually,” Wade told him, “you’re exactly the kind of guy LOST needs. Think it over.”

Dace’s head tilted down and he stared at the floor as he said, “Don’t see how I’d be any good. I didn’t find Kennedy. Didn’t help her—­”

“You didn’t give up on her,” Victoria said. “That’s what matters. And maybe next time, you will bring the missing home.”

She felt Wade’s gaze on her.

“Hope,” Victoria explained simply. “That’s what this is about. Not just closing a case, but finding those victims. Giving the family hope.” Hope could be such a beautiful thing.

Wade had taught her that.

It was a lesson that she would never forget.

Her fingers curled with his and they walked out of the police station. Asher was right. They had a vacation coming. Maybe someplace tropical. And maybe . . . maybe while they were there, they’d even get married on a sunny beach.

Life was full of hope now. She saw it—­everywhere she looked.

Wade squeezed her fingers, and she knew, finally, that there would be no more desperate searching for her. No more fighting to keep her secrets hidden. She was safe. She was loved.

She was home . . . with Wade.

Exactly where she was supposed to be.

Are you addicted to the sexy and suspenseful novels

from New York Times best-­selling author

CYNTHIA EDEN?

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TAKEN

Coming soon from Avon Books!

Read on for a sneak peek . . .

PROLOGUE

BAILEY JONES DIDN’T want to die. Not tied up, tortured, and all alone in that damn little shack.

She couldn’t feel her fingers. That should have scared her—­that terrible numbness—­but she was long past the point of being afraid. She was mad now. So fucking angry—­why had this happened? Why her? And, why, why wouldn’t the jerk who held her just let her go?

Her face slid over the rough wooden floor of the cabin. She jerked at the rope that held her wrists, but it wouldn’t give. She was sure she’d been bleeding from her wrists earlier, but had that stopped? Or maybe she was still bleeding—­from her wrists or from the slashes on her body. Bailey didn’t know if the wounds still trickled blood.

She only knew . . . she’d been in that cabin for nearly three days. Light had come and gone, spilling through the window. Her lips were busted and raw, and her throat was sore—­scratched from screaming and bone dry because the bastard who’d taken her had only given her the tiniest sips of water. And no food, no food at all. No bathroom.

Just pain.

She inched across the floor, moving like a worm. If she could just get across the room, she’d be able to get out of the door. If she could get to that door, she could escape.

Her captor had made a mistake. After his last time using that knife on her . . . he’d thought that she passed out. Bailey had learned fast with that freak. He only liked to hurt her if she was awake. If she was unconscious . . . well, there must not be any damn fun in the act for him. He liked to see her suffer. Liked to make her beg.

Eleven slices of his knife . . . he’d been counting. He’d stopped after eleven, his breathing heaving, his body shaking. And when he stopped .