cheek, remembering the pain of looking different and wondering if her face or eyes were scarred or appeared unusual.
If the morning paper or news would show her lying in bed, weak and vulnerable, the details of her sordid childhood exposed for the world to see.
Guilt and shame quickly overrode her concern—how could she possibly worry about her looks or people reading about her past when her students needed her? No telling what they were going through.
Her breathing turned erratic again, and she suddenly felt like her chest was going to explode. Pain shot through her, stifling and frightening. One of the monitors went off, the beeping more rapid with the tune of her breathing.
The door screeched open, then footsteps. “Ms. Reacher, I’m here.” Haley’s voice, soothing and calm. Her hand gently brushed Charlotte’s. “Did something happen?”
Charlotte shook her head. “A nightmare.”
“That’s understandable. You’ve been through hell,” the nurse said.
Charlotte gasped for a breath again, that tight sensation returning.
“Just try to relax, take slow even breaths.”
“What’s happening?” Charlotte asked, her voice cracking as she clawed for air.
“You’re having a panic attack,” Haley said softly. “It’s not uncommon, especially after suffering a trauma. Try to imagine yourself in a happy place.”
Charlotte nodded miserably and forced herself to do as Haley instructed. Slow breaths. Think of a happy place.
Her studio. The paints. The vibrant colors. Reds and blues and purples, shades of violet. Yellow, like the sunflowers she adored. Then pastels. The pale yellow of the moon on a cool night when she gazed at the stars. The light blue of the sky on a sunny day, of the ocean at sunset.
Except the attack had tainted the image of the studio. Her happy place was no longer tranquil or peaceful, but shrouded in the horror of what had happened.
No, she couldn’t let those men destroy her place, or the good that had happened in the studio.
The girls were painting, laughing, talking, listening to music. Their hearts were opening as they poured emotions onto the canvases, their spirits lifting as they began to trust her and each other.
“It’s going to be all right,” Haley said.
How could it be when she might never see her students again?
* * *
LUCAS SCANNED THE interior of the warehouse space, but it appeared to be empty. Knowing that appearances could be deceiving, he crept inside, senses alert in case the girls had been locked inside a cage or an underground space.
It had happened before. A woman buried in a box beneath the ground. They hadn’t found her in time.
He prayed it was different for these young girls.
The flashlight painted a thin stream across the cement flooring, and he inched through the space, crossing to the back. Several barrels were pushed against the wall.
His heart raced as he rapped his knuckles on the exterior. A hollow sound echoed back. Still, he pried open the tops and searched each one.
Empty.
He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Satisfied the space was clean, he crept through the back door and outside, then searched the bushes and grounds until he reached the middle warehouse.
Just as made it to the door, a screeching sound came from the interior.
Pulse jumping, he braced his gun and slipped through the opening. It was pitch-dark inside. The noise...there it was again.
A high-pitched wail.
Holding his breath, he aimed his flashlight along the wall, searching for the source. A wooden crate was pushed to the back.
Dear God. Was someone inside?
The wailing sounded again.
Lucas rushed to the crate, anxious to see if someone was trapped inside. He examined the wood, noting spaces between the slits. It was about a twelve-by-twelve space.
He needed to open the damn thing. He used his hands to pry at the rotting boards. They easily gave way and he yanked off three of them to look inside.
Nothing.
Damn. Where had that sound come from?
He turned and shined his flashlight across the back wall. A pile of rubbish, old cans, wood, storage containers and trash. Determined to find the source of the wailing, he tossed aside all the junk.
Something moved behind the rubbish. Too small to be a person. An animal?
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stooped down and dug away more debris. A small orange ball caught his eye. Then a low whine, like a baby crying.
A kitten.
Breath whooshing out in relief, he gently reached inside the space and scooped up the tiny feline.
Growing up on the ranch, he and his brothers had taken in stray dogs, but Chrissy had been the cat lover. Pain squeezed at his chest. She would have loved this little bundle of fur.
He nuzzled it next to his cheek. “Come on, little one, we’ll find you a home.”
Satisfied this warehouse hadn’t been used for the kidnapped girls, he carried the kitten outside. Harrison was standing by the last warehouse looking grim.
Lucas’s heart lurched. “What?”
“It’s empty, but it has been used.” Harrison narrowed his eyes at the kitten, but didn’t comment, then motioned for Lucas to follow him inside the other space.
The interior was dark, but Harrison illuminated a path with his flashlight, and Lucas followed. In the far right corner, he spotted three old mattresses, discarded paper products from take-out restaurants and several empty water bottles.
But it was the hooks on the wall that made his blood run cold. Metal hooks connected to chains.
A used hypodermic lay discarded on the floor, a sign the kidnappers had drugged their victims.
“There’s blood on the chains,” Harrison said as he pointed to a dark stain.
Nausea climbed Lucas’s throat, anger churning at the images that flashed across his mind.
“Let’s collect some of this stuff and send it to the lab. Maybe we can confirm who was here and the kidnappers’ drug of choice.”
Harrison nodded, yanked on gloves
