Page 55 of The Hanging Dolls (Zoe Storm #1)

FIFTY-FOUR

A quick search of the Larkspur Greenhouse on the Internet yielded no information. It was a private property—not registered or run by any organization. But that wasn’t what stood out to her like a giant, loud red sign.

It was John Smith.

Why would anyone ordering a phlebotomy kit online give the name John Smith ? It was because he had something to hide. He didn’t want his identity known.

She dropped a quick message to Aiden, letting him know where she was headed.

The greenhouse was nestled in a small clearing, surrounded by towering evergreens that seemed to close in on all sides.

The glass structure was dimly lit by the last rays of twilight with ivy creeping up its sides and moss gathering at its base.

There was no sign of life, no other buildings, no distant hum of civilization—just the greenhouse.

Zoe moved quickly but quietly, scanning the area for any signs of surveillance or recent activity.

She noticed the heavy padlock on the door.

It was old but sturdy, the kind of lock that wasn’t meant to be easily tampered with.

Without hesitation, she pulled out a small set of tools from her jacket, quickly working the lock until it gave way with a soft click.

The door creaked open, and she slipped inside.

The interior was almost completely dark, save for the faintest glow filtering through the glass walls.

Her eyes adjusted, revealing rows of plants on long tables, their leaves casting strange, elongated shadows across the floor.

The air inside was thick and humid, carrying the earthy scent of soil and the sharp tang of fertilizer.

The walls were lined with shelves, stacked with gardening tools, pots, and various bags of soil amendments.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Zoe shouted out, her voice bouncing around the greenhouse. She knew there was no one around but it didn’t hurt to try. The scent of greenery was overwhelming and she searched for a power switch to turn on the lights but to no avail.

Her heart thudded slowly in her chest and her skin tingled.

She inspected the plants closely—varieties she didn’t immediately recognize, some of them rare or exotic, their leaves glistening in the dim light.

She could dig into property records and figure out who owned this place but she was hoping this approach would be quicker.

An isolated private greenhouse was also a perfect place to hide a child.

Perhaps this is where Lily had encountered devil’s club and got an allergic reaction.

Zoe approached a table and rifled through the few papers—seed catalogs, plant care guides—from decades ago.

Confusion flared. There was no information on the owner, and only old plant guides, and yet it appeared from the plants that someone was maintaining the greenhouse at some capacity.

Then something caught her eye near the back of the greenhouse.

A small section of the floor looked different—less worn, the dirt not as compacted.

She knelt down and ran her hand over the area, her fingers brushing against a metallic edge hidden beneath the dirt.

She carefully cleared the soil away, revealing a hidden latch.

Zoe paused, her instincts on high alert. An energy cackled through her. She gripped the latch, her knuckles white with tension, and pulled. The floor gave way with a low groan, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into the darkness.

Using her phone’s flashlight, she went down the staircase.

She hated the dark and had never got over that childish fear that something would reach out and yank her in.

Her labored breathing echoed in her ears.

She waved the flashlight around until it landed on a metallic door covered in rust in front of her.

She checked her Glock, safely tucked in her waistband. As she padded softly toward the door, she could hear muffled voices coming from the other side. Fear clawed up her skin, making her shiver. Her toes curled in her boots.

The door wasn’t entirely closed. She took a breath and pushed it open.

“FBI!” she shouted, her gun pointed ahead.

The room was bathed in warm, yellow light. Sparse furniture. Stone walls. A carton of bottled water and sandwiches piled on the side of the room. But it was the sight in front of her that made her stop.

There was a small cot. Lucy was sitting on it, eating an ice cream. Next to her, a young man was standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Their faces snapped in Zoe’s direction.

The man’s eyes flashed with fear. He licked his lips, eyes darting around for an escape route, but the only way was through Zoe who had a gun. He was wearing faded jeans and a black hoodie with a big bleach stain on the front.

Her scalp prickled.

The same hoodie she’d seen in the CCTV footage of the burglary at the bakery.

“Lucy, honey.” Zoe kept the gun aimed at the man. “Why don’t you come with me? Do you want to go home?”

Lucy nodded with her mouth full. She put down the ice cream and ran toward Zoe, wrapping her arms around her legs. The relief Zoe felt nearly knocked her off balance.

“Please try to understand!” the boy who couldn’t be a day over twenty begged. “This isn’t what?—”

“Save it!” she hissed and he cowered, crouching on the floor. “On your knees, hands behind your head.”

He did as she said. Zoe pulled out the handcuffs from her back pocket and secured his hands behind his back.

He kept his head down, his shoulders drooping.

She didn’t put her gun away yet—not until she had backup.

But she ran her eyes all over Lucy, whose face looked thinner but there wasn’t a single blemish on her.

Relief flooded her. She had found Lucy alive. Lucy was fine. This was over.

“What’s your name, kid?” she asked.

“Ryan Hunter.”