Page 34 of If You're Reading This

His trained eye caught details that made his stomach tighten. The smudge on the steering wheel that could be blood. The way the glove compartment hung open and emptied of contents.

“Clear,” he called over his shoulder to Duke and Andi, who waited at the edge of the small clearing, tension visible in their postures.

But there was still the trunk.

He’d check that in a moment.

First, Logan tried the driver’s door. It was unlocked—another bad sign.

He slid into the seat, immediately registering the unfamiliar scent. Not Morgan’s usual lavender and cedar. This was something sharper, something almost chemical.

Latex, maybe.

Someone had worn gloves.

The seat felt wrong beneath him. Too low, too far back, adjusted for someone taller. Male.

His jaw tightened as he continued to gather information.

Then he found the trunk release. His finger hovered over the button as dread pooled in his stomach like ice water.

What if she’s in there? What if this is where I find her?

He pressed the button.

The latch released with a soft click that seemed to echo through the silent forest.

Logan forced himself to his feet, gun still drawn, and circled to the rear of the vehicle.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Duke and Andi. If their faces reflected the fear clawing at his insides, he might shatter completely.

Each step toward the trunk felt like moving through quicksand. Logan had investigated dozens of homicides during his career, but none had ever felt this personal, this devastating in its potential.

He’d found one small mercy in the moment.

The sharp, unmistakable odor of decomposition was absent.

Whatever awaited him in the trunk, it wasn’t a long-dead body.

He reached the rear of the vehicle, steadied his breathing, and raised the trunk lid in one deliberate motion, bracing for the worst.

It was empty.

The relief he felt was so intense, so instantaneous, it almost made his knees buckle. But the feeling only lasted a few seconds before giving way to a new wave of uncertainty.

A single dark hair—long, possibly Morgan’s—lay curled against the plastic interior.

But no Morgan.

No body.

Which meant she could still be alive.

He lifted a silent prayer of gratitude.

“She’s not here.” Logan’s voice came out rougher than he’d intended. “Trunk’s clear.”

Duke’s hand rested on his shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of both relief and the uncertainty still stretching before them.