to be there for her and Portia. He’d obviously also wanted to be the custodial parent if something were to happen to Melanie. He just hadn’t expected it to happen. Melanie had been young and fit, health-minded and cautious. He hadn’t expected her to suddenly be gone. Portia hadn’t, either. Her mother’s death had been a shock. Being forced to move from Michigan to Texas had meant giving up everything she knew and loved.
For the first few months, they’d tiptoed around each other. Mostly silent. Uncertain. He’d been a little too eager to build a bridge between them. Portia had been resistant. Recently, though, they’d begun to relax around each other, and he’d begun to enjoy the music drifting from her room, the quick tap of her fingers on the laptop keyboard while he made dinner.
He couldn’t remember when she’d begun sitting at the kitchen table while he cooked, but he knew he enjoyed having her there. Even when he didn’t know what questions to ask or how to ask the important ones, it was nice to have a house that felt like a home. It was nice to return from work to the very real and unmistakable feeling of not being alone.
Now the house was empty, and the terror he felt at the thought of his daughter being with the Red Rose Killer stole every thought from his head. Except one: finding her.
“Portia!” he called, knowing she wouldn’t answer.
Boyd had her phone. He had her.
Justin was surprised that his voice wasn’t shaking, surprised that his legs were carrying him upstairs.
Quinn loped ahead of him, following a scent trail into a narrow hall that opened into three bedrooms and a bathroom. The Malinois beelined to Portia’s door, scratching at it with his paw.
It opened silently, swinging inward.
“Portia?” Justin repeated, stepping inside.
The room was empty.
Just like he’d expected.
Tidy. Portia liked her things neat and organized. Just like Justin. She liked an uncluttered environment. Also, like Justin. Funny how those traits had carried genetically. Melanie had been creative and disorganized, her house filled with knickknacks and art projects. The few times Justin had been there, he’d had the urge to declutter and organize.
Had Portia felt that way?
Had her bedroom at her mom’s house been as neat and tidy as this one? He hadn’t asked her. The topic had felt too fraught with emotion—a minefield he wasn’t sure either of them was ready to walk through.
“I’m sorry, Justin,” Gretchen said, stepping into the room behind him.
“This is my fault. I should have sent her somewhere safe.”
“Nowhere would be safe. Not if Boyd wanted to get his hands on her. You know that.”
He did, but that didn’t make it easier to stomach.
“And the only person at fault here is Boyd,” she continued, turning a slow circle, taking in all the details of the room. “There’s no sign of a struggle.”
“I don’t think she’d have tried to fight someone who had a gun,” he said, trying not to imagine the terror Portia must have felt, the fear that must have been in her eyes. She might be organized and meticulous like Justin, but she felt things deeply like her mother. She was a writer. Of journals. Of blogs. All the things she didn’t say, she poured into written words and sentences and paragraphs. He didn’t have to be father of the year to know that about his daughter.
“It looks like she was on her computer.” Gretchen walked to the bed, moving past Justin and Quinn. He let her lead the way, because his judgment was clouded by fear. He was a good enough officer to know that, and she was a good enough one to take control of the scene.
He’d noticed the laptop, and now he noticed a note taped to it as he approached the bed. He could read it easily, the words printed in bold red ink: Now the formerly anonymous blogger of CAFB will really have something to write about.
“I need to find her.” He called for Quinn, planning to run outside. If Quinn could find a scent trail, they might be able to follow it to Boyd’s location.
“You need to slow down, Justin.”
“That’s an easy thing to say when it’s not your daughter in the hands of a serial killer,” he responded, regretting it immediately. He knew Gretchen cared deeply about the work she did and about the people she worked for. She took the job as seriously as he did, and she was as eager as he was to find and stop Boyd.
“Maybe. Probably. But we have a job to do here, and the first step in that is figuring out where he took her.”
“That’s what Quinn and I are going to do.”
“Find!” he commanded, and the Malinois took off, sprinting downstairs and out the door. Sirens were blaring, lights flashing on the pavement. Backup had arrived, but Justin ignored everything but his K-9 partner.
Please, God, don’t let it be too late for Portia, he begged silently as he followed Quinn around the side of the house and across the backyard. The night was cool, the moon high, and he could see Quinn easily, loping toward the woods at the edge of the yard. Confident, excited, tail up, ears alert, nose dropping to the ground every few yards.
The scent trail was fresh.
They were right on the heels of Boyd and Portia. With a dog as well trained as Quinn, it would be easy to overtake them. Portia would be moving slowly. At least, he thought she would be. She’d be dragging her feet, trying to slow progress, because she was smart, and she’d know just how much she could push before Boyd reacted.
That was what Justin was telling himself.
He didn’t know if it was true.
Sure, his daughter was smart—an A student who excelled at both math and English—but their bond was still tenuous and new, their knowledge of each other limited, and he really had no idea how she’d react to being kidnapped.
They reached the tree line, and Quinn trailed back toward Justin, then circled around a place where the grass seemed to have been smashed down and trampled.
“Looks like someone fell,” Gretchen said, flashing her light on the spot. He hadn’t expected her to stay at the house and wasn’t surprised that she’d followed him. Her methods of approaching crime scenes were spot-on. She’d been an MP for six of her nearly eight years in the air force. He’d seen her military record. She was well-known for her dedication and professionalism, and he’d seen both during her time at Canyon Air Force Base.
Right now, though, he didn’t want to spend time discussing the crime scene or working out the details of a plan. He wanted to find his daughter.
“You know that you can’t approach this any differently than you would if we were searching for someone else’s child,” she added, as if she’d read his thoughts and knew exactly what he intended.
“Kidnapped child,” he replied, but she was right. If he were searching for anyone other than Portia, he’d be meticulous as he surveyed the scene, approaching the situation logically rather than running on emotion and adrenaline.
He
