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“No,” I grunted as I shoved off my legs to stand at full height. I snagged the bottle of water from the detective’s outstretched hand and twisted the cap off with more force than necessary.

“Weak stomach?”

I scoffed, then swished the first couple of sips around before spitting it across the drive. “For the last fifteen fucking minutes, I gave mouth-to-mouth to a mostly dead guy, whom I cannot fucking stand because he’s in love with my girl. Oh, and my girl is in the hands of some fucking psychopath,” I bellowed. “So no, not a weak fucking stomach. I’m a fucking wreck.”

The other men loitering around stopped their work and turned.

The detective just shook his head. “Right. Sorry. Let's get inside.”

Several sets of cautious eyes followed my path up the porch steps and into the living room; no doubt they all knew I was at my breaking point.

Inside, I polished off what was left in the bottle and scanned the room. My attention fell to the pillow on the floor by the couch. The same pillow Alta used that morning to avoid me. My stomach churned as fear and anger fought their internal battle with in me. I shook my head to stop the dark path my thoughts were leading me down and looked to the kitchen. That wasn’t much better. All I could see was the spot where I’d knelt minutes ago, keeping John alive.

“You bring coffee home?”

“Huh?” I responded but didn’t look over.

“Coffee.” I followed the path of his pointed finger to the three to-go coffee cups on the table. “Someone brought it from the shop in town. Was that you?”

“No,” I mused and stepped closer. His hand swatted mine when I tried to grab one. “Maybe Sadie did, the girl who was drugged.”

“So she brought a coffee for you, your girlfriend, and the other guy?”

“Alta doesn’t drink coffee. The other cup would’ve been for her.”

“But that still leaves one more. That means she expected you to be here, but you weren’t.”

Brows furrowed, I tried to follow his theory but failed. “Why does that matter?”

The detective rolled his eyes to the ceiling like I was the stupidest motherfucker he’d ever spoken to. If I weren’t so desperate to hear his theory, I would’ve punched him.

“It matters because that guy they took away didn’t look like he put up a fight, which doesn’t make sense if someone marched in here and abducted Alta Johnson. That means he was already drugged when the person broke in, and I’m guessing”—he pointed a chewed-on pen at the cups—“that’s how they got the drug in their system.”

“But Alta wouldn’t drink the coffee,” I mused.

The detective nodded like he was deep in thought, trying to work through the roadblock I’d erected, halting his theory. With an inspecting eye, he walked around the table, looking for who knew what. In the kitchen, the detective swung open the cabinet under the sink and squatted. Intrigued, I peeked over the counter to find him rummaging through the trash can.

When he stood, his features were grave as he held an empty orange juice bottle in his hand. “Your girl like orange juice?”

39

Alta

“Please don’t do this,”I pleaded through my tears as his hand scraped up my bare stomach.

His smile grew feral. Instead of halting, he palmed a breast and gave it a painfully tight squeeze.

The pain triggered the despair to shut off and fury to fill its place. Hot, bright-red anger blazed through my core, fueling the strength I needed to fight back. Not giving a second thought to the pain that would surely follow, or how stupid my actions were, I lunged forward with a banshee scream. My forehead slammed against his nose with a sickening crackling of bone. He yelled in pain and tumbled back, taking me with him, still tied to the chair. My face smacked against the dirt, pain searing through my head at the impact against my injured cheek.

Stars sparkled in my vision. Blink after blink, I tried to clear my head.

Roaring curses and rage-filled snarls bounced off the walls of the rickety shed.

“You fucking cunt!” he screeched. Blood pouring down his face, eyes wild with hate, he stumbled to his feet. “Fucking bitch,” he yelled again as his foot drew back. Not wanting to watch, I sealed my eyes shut. All the air whooshed from my lungs, preventing me from screaming in pain as his foot crashed into my unprotected stomach. Again and again his foot connected, sending me skidding across the floor. I gasped for air as tears slipped out from my shut lids, streaming to the ground.

Fingers dug into my bicep, hauling me off the ground to set the chair upright. With my back to the door, the light from the other room illuminated the evil in his rage-distorted face.

Hand in my hair, he fisted a clump and yanked my head back, ripping the strands from my scalp. I screamed at the top of my lungs as pain radiated from everywhere. I thrashed against his hold, but it did no good. Ice-cold terror chilled my anger at the distinct sound of a zipper.