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CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

Logan drove with Duke and Andi as quickly as he safely could to get to the location. He’d already given his friends the update.

He’d told them about Knox. Told them about just how cold and heartless the man was—he was the embodiment of danger.

The man was a tattoo artist, so he had some artistic ability.

Was Knox connected with Ryan Mercer, the victim they’d found yesterday? Logan wasn’t sure how all the pieces fit together.

What if . . . what if Knox had forced Morgan to take that picture? That would explain why it had been such a good replica, why all the details matched so well.

What if someone was forcing Morgan to do horrible things?

Bile churned inside him at the thought.

“I did some research on the area where we’re going,” Andi said from the back seat, where she tapped away on her phone. “There are mostly old hunting cabins out this way. It looks like we’re heading toward one.”

Hunting cabins? That sounded secluded—and like the perfect place for Knox to hide out.

Logan’s mind continued to race.

He had no idea what he might come upon when he found Knox.

Finally, he turned off the highway and drove down several side roads. Like much of the area, the boreal forest surrounded either side of the street.

With each turn, the isolation grew deeper, more enveloping.

He made one last turn before pulling to a stop at the end of a gravel path.

An old shack stood in front of them, part of the structure charred from a fire.

His throat went dry. He’d seen this cabin before. He knew he had—and he had a really good guess as to where.

In one of Morgan’s photos.

He’d come here expecting to find Knox. Now he had a feeling he might find something different.

Or had Knox’s phone pinged in the area because he’d been here recently?

Logan’s thoughts collided inside him.

He imagined Morgan inside.

He imagined what Knox might have done to her out of revenge. She’d gotten him and his cronies arrested. The vengeance Knox would want . . . it wouldn’t be pretty.

Logan’s gut twisted at the thought.

He’d stopped a good twenty feet away from the structure, knowing it was best not to announce their arrival.

However, he saw no other vehicles outside and the place looked uninhabited.

How had Knox found this place? Why had he chosen this location?

Deep inside, Logan thought he already knew.

Duke turned toward him. “What’s the plan?”

Logan kept his gaze on the cabin. “Let’s see what’s going on. If it looks like we’ll need backup, I’ll call Reeves and Yazzie.”

“Okay then.” Andi offered an affirmative nod.

“I’ll go first.” Logan drew his gun. “You guys stay behind me.”

He didn’t want to put his friends in the line of fire, just in case.

He gripped his gun as he climbed from the SUV.

Then he hurried to the shack, staying low.

As soon as he was close enough, he pressed himself beneath a window and paused.

A familiar, pungent smell drifted outward—the unmistakable copper-penny smell of blood mixed with the early stages of decomposition.

The smell of death.

His stomach turned at the realization.

Logan took a step toward the door when Duke’s hand came down on his shoulder.

“Maybe you should let me go inside first.” Duke said the words quietly, with reverence.

Logan knew what his friend was hinting at.

He feared the scent was coming from Morgan and that Logan shouldn’t see whatever might have happened to her.

But there was no way Logan could stay on the periphery. As much as he appreciated his friend trying to help him, Logan needed to be first inside.

“I’ve got this.” He prayed his words were true.

Carefully, Logan walked toward the door.

Instead of announcing himself, which would be protocol, he twisted the handle.

It was unlocked.

He quietly opened the door.

If Knox was inside, Logan wanted to take him by surprise.

The living room, kitchen, and small dining area filled his gaze. Above him, half the roof was gone, burned by the fire. Snow gathered in the corners inside.

He tested the floor to make sure it was safe. Then he stepped farther inside, his gaze wandering throughout the cabin.

With every step, the stench of death grew stronger.

He wasn’t normally given to anxiety. But nausea roiled in his stomach.

He couldn’t get the image of what may have happened to Morgan out of his head.

He cleared the living room, then the kitchen.

He’d seen no one yet, no signs of what had happened or where the smell of decay was coming from.

Then he reached a single bedroom in the back.

As he did, the stench thickened. The rank odor of death seeped through the cracks like a warning.

He drew in a deep breath before opening the door.

His whole world froze when he saw the body there.

Please, Lord. . . . don’t let it be Morgan. Please.