Page 69 of Captivated

Except he knew deep down the chances of it being a coincidence were remote.Mark Omerod, from Oregon?Okay, Oregon was a big state, and maybe Omerod was a common name, but the earlier part of the conversation had led Nate in a direction he really didn’t want to go.

He searched his memory.Where did he say he was from? Ontario?That was right on the border, maybe less than an hour from Boise.

That made it eight or nine hours’ drive from Salvation.

Wait. Check it out first before you do something rash.

By the time he got behind the wheel of his car, he was a mess.

He said he wanted to go home.

Mark would’ve doneanythingto go home.

Even lie to them.

His heart pounding, Nate followed the track back to the cabin, all the while praying to be wrong. He went into the cabin, grabbed his phone from where he’d left it charging, and typed in the search engine.

A minute later, he was shaking uncontrollably, and he made a dash for the bathroom where he threw up everything he’d just eaten. Nate rinsed his mouth, washed his face in cold water, and stared at his reflection, his face pale, flecks of red under his dull eyes.

They did this. They fucking did this.

Nate was going to make sure they knew that.

Zeeb couldn’t shake the feeling he’d missed something.

He seemed fine. He looked calm.

What the fuck happened?

Robert laid his hand on Zeeb’s arm. “You know it might be too much for him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I even told him he could leave whenever he wanted. It’s just…” Zeeb stared down at the ranch. “Maybe I should go see how he is.”Or at least send him a message.

Robert shook his head. “Give him some space. He might want to be alone right now. Leave it until the morning.” He paused. “He’ll be okay.”

Zeeb’s gut was telling him a different story.

It was also telling him he wouldn’t feel right until he knew Nate was okay.

Chapter Twenty

July 22, 2024

Ontario, Oregon

The tires crackledover gravel as Nate pulled up to the curb. NW 19th Street was silent, not that he was surprised. Sunday had already slipped into the early hours of Monday. The engine ticked as it cooled, but he didn’t move to get out. The interior car light revealed white knuckles around the steering wheel.

He stared at the dimly lit porch, his chest tight, his mouth dry.

You don’t have to do this. Turn around. It’s not your place. There’s still time to change your mind.

Nate had stopped listening to the voice of reason in his head at some point between Bozeman and Idaho Falls. Instead, he’d found a radio station that played songs with a heavy, thrumming bass, and he’d kept it there for the whole trip.

Perfect for his mood. He’d wanted his rage on simmer all the way to Oregon.

Except now he was there, Mark’s parents’ home a few feet away, and he had no clue what he was going to say to them.

They killed him.