Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)

by Melinda Leigh

  Chelsea.

  How would they protect her? All they had was a hunch that her kidnapper wanted her back.

  Morgan straightened. “Turn the Jeep around.”

  “What are you thinking?” Lance asked in a suspicious voice as he made a U-turn.

  “Head for Tim and Chelsea’s house.” Morgan reached for the armrest as the vehicle lurched. “We need to talk to them.”

  “OK.” Lance pressed the accelerator, and the vehicle surged forward.

  “He branded her with an infinity symbol.” The brand was the one thing that separated Chelsea from the other two women. It was unusual. Personal. Intimate. “Chelsea’s kidnapper intended to keep her forever. He won’t let her go easily. He’ll know about the arrest of the Burns brothers, and that the sheriff considers the case closed.”

  “And that the sheriff will pull the car sitting in her driveway,” Lance finished.

  Morgan tapped her phone with a fingertip. The fact that Tim hadn’t returned her call worried her.

  “We need to make a stop. I have an idea,” Morgan said. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Outside the car window, clouds obscured the moon. Night smothered the landscape.

  Was he hiding out there? Waiting for Chelsea to assume she was safe and drop her guard?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chelsea woke with a start. The darkness suffocated her. She drew in a gasp of air, and her heart leaped into a full panicked sprint.

  “Hey, Chels. It’s OK.” A light clicked on. Tim was sitting in a chair by the window, an electronic tablet on his lap. He got up and moved to the side of the bed. He put a hand on her forehead. She flinched.

  “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t help it.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He smiled to cover the hurt in his eyes. “You can’t expect to go through what you did and not be affected. We’ll get through this.”

  He put his hand out on the bed, palm up, and waited for her to take the initiative. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be touched at all. Her body hurt. From her face to her feet, there wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t ache.

  She shifted her legs under the blanket. The burn on her buttock blazed. Agony shot from the brand, radiating like a starburst into her hip and thigh.

  “I don’t feel safe here.” She’d been taken from her own driveway. How would she ever feel safe in her home again?

  “The doctor said we should try to wait a few months before we move.”

  “I know.” But Chelsea wanted to run away from this house—this town, this state—as fast as she could. When they’d returned home, there had been reporters outside.

  In the container, all she’d wanted to do was get home. Now that she was home, she didn’t want to be there.

  “What about going to a hotel for a few days?” She wanted to be somewhere no one knew her.

  She wanted to hide.

  “Do you want to talk to the psychiatrist?” Tim asked. “He gave me his cell number.”

  The same psychiatrist who’d recommended keeping her routine as normal as possible.

  “No.” Even Chelsea knew she was hiding from her own shadow and that she had to face reality.

  “Do you need a pain pill?” Tim asked.

  Across the hall, William began to cry.

  She nodded. At least William had accepted bottle feedings so she could take medication. Between the drugs, the beatings, and the dehydration, her breast milk had dried up while she’d been gone.

  It hurt to think the words: Kidnapped. Held captive. Beaten. Branded. The psychiatrist had said she should expect nightmares and panic attacks. They were normal reactions to the trauma she’d suffered. The only bright spot had been that he hadn’t raped her.

  But hiding from her pain wasn’t going to help. She needed to face it, and she was too exhausted to do it alone.

  She laid her hand in Tim’s. His fingers closed, the connection between them familiar and comforting.

  William grew louder, and Chelsea automatically started to rise.

  Tim squeezed her hand. “It’s OK. Your mom will get him.”

  “No. I want to feed him. The doctor said normal activities will help.” She should strive for moments—even seconds—of normal activity. Take each day one minute at a time. All she’d been able to think about when she’d been in the container was getting back to her kids. That, at least, made her feel sane.

  “I’ll get him for you then.” Tim released her hand and stood. “Your dad took Bella out for ice cream. She was restless. Will you be all right for a few minutes alone? I have to warm up a bottle.”

  She wasn’t really sure, but she nodded. Tim walked out of the room. Chelsea eased to her feet. Her soles were bandaged and sore from running miles in the woods barefoot.

  She hobbled to the bathroom. Even though she’d seen her reflection earlier, the sight of her black-and-blue face startled her. She shivered. She still couldn’t get warm. She’d lost eight pounds in nine days but had no appetite. She gently brushed her teeth. Her bruises would fade. The swelling would go down. In a few weeks, she’d look normal.

  Except for the brand.

  The doctors wanted her to wait until she was fully recovered before undergoing plastic surgery to remove it. But they warned that it was deep. No matter what they did, she would have a scar. A permanent reminder of her captivity.

  She could deal with that. She was alive. She’d held her baby and read to Bella. Thankfully, Chelsea’s mom had prepared the little girl by telling her that Mommy had fallen and landed on her face, just like when Bella had fallen off the slide and scraped her knee a few weeks before. So after a long, hard look, Bella had pointed to her knee and decided her mommy would get better soon too.

  The sheriff had called to say they’d caught her captor and rescued the blonde woman he’d kidnapped the day before. It was really over.

  Everything was going to be all right. Her mom and dad and husband were taking care of her.

  So why did her hands continue to shake?

  William cried louder. Chelsea was afraid to pick him up. She was still weak. But she couldn’t stand to listen to him cry. She brushed her teeth gingerly, then washed her hands.

  Where was Tim?

  A loud thud downstairs turned Chelsea’s blood to ice. Her knees shook as she walked toward the hall.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Moonlight lit his way. He cruised past the Clarks’ house. No police car. The sheriff’s department thought they had Chelsea’s kidnapper and had pulled their deputy from his babysitting duty. Tim’s Toyota was parked in the driveway, but the Dodge rental car was gone. Chelsea’s parents must have left as well.

  This was exactly what he’d been hoping for.

  Perfect timing.

  He parked at the curb in front of a house catty-corner from the Clark residence. The neighbors had teenagers and cars coming and going at all hours. No one would notice one more vehicle.

  Last time he’d come here, the night he’d brought her home with him, he’d ridden his road bike and hidden it behind some bushes. Tonight, she’d be coming with him in his car.

  Anger rose in his throat.

  She’d left him to return to Tim. This time, he’d make sure Chelsea had no husband to return to. She would never choose another man over him again.

  Tim had to go.

  The kids too. Chelsea would never let go of her old family and embrace him while they lived. As much as it pained him to hurt two children, he had no choice. He’d be merciful. Their deaths would be quick and painless.

  But not Tim’s. He had to pay, and Chelsea had to watch. She had to know that Tim’s suffering was her fault. That everything that was going to happen tonight was her doing.

  After tonight she’d never fuck with him again. She’d do what she was told. She’d finally understand that he owned her.

  The mark he’d left on her body was a permanent reminder.

  He checked his pockets
before he got out of the car: knife, duct tape, nylon rope.

  He scanned the street in both directions before crossing it and jogging up the driveway. Coming and going would be the riskiest. Once he was in the house, he had confidence he’d be able to overpower Tim quickly. Once Tim was restrained, the rest would be a cakewalk.

  Chelsea wasn’t in any condition to fight back. That he knew.

  Once he entered the shadows on the side of the house, he breathed easier. There were enough mature trees and shrubs that the neighboring houses couldn’t see him. At the back of the house, he climbed onto the air-conditioning unit to peer through the window into the kitchen.

  The house was dark. He could see through into the adjoining family room. No one was there. The TV was off.

  They were probably sleeping.

  He crept to the sliding glass door. Chelsea and Tim didn’t have an alarm system. He lifted the door at the handle, jiggling it until the latch opened. Most people had no idea that the latch on a standard sliding glass door was useless.

  Sliding the door open, he stepped inside and listened for a few seconds. The house was quiet. He’d never been inside, but the house was small and the layout fairly obvious. A night-light in the electrical socket at knee level lit his way. He had a small flashlight in his pocket but preferred not to use it.

  His sneakers were silent on the tile as he crossed the kitchen. In the adjoining family room, he entered the hall and walked to the foyer at the front of the house. The living room and dining room flanked the foyer. Both were empty and dark.

  Where was Tim?

  A floorboard overhead creaked. His nerves sat up straighter. Someone was awake upstairs.

  The stairwell was dark as he crept up the steps. He stopped just shy of the landing and scanned the second floor. Two doorways on the left. A bathroom straight ahead. And another door on the right. Only one door was open.

  Another floorboard creaked and the sound of a baby crying came from the opened doorway. Who had woken to tend to the baby?

  Chelsea or Tim?

  He slid the knife from his pocket and turned it over in his grip.

  Moving slowly, he stole up the last few steps. On the landing, he wavered. Should he go into the nursery and confront whoever was in there? Or should he find the master bedroom?

  A sleeping adult would be easier to overpower. But the person who was already awake was more likely to hear him.

  He would deal with the conscious adult first and hope he didn’t wake the sleeper.

  Putting his back to the wall, he sidled to the doorway and peered around the frame.

  His heart stuttered. There she was.

  Chelsea.

  Her back was to him, so he took a minute to watch her.

  Moonlight poured through the window and turned her blonde hair silver. It fell down the back of her thick robe. She was leaning over the crib and picking up the baby, her voice soft, more murmurs than words.

  She was perfect.

  From the first time he’d seen her he’d known. She was the one for him. Sure, he’d thought that before, and he’d been wrong that time. But this was different; this time he knew for sure.

  Chelsea was wholesome and sweet. Most women ignored him, but she always smiled. She talked to him like he was normal.

  His fingers tightened around the knife as he edged closer. They were going to be together again. And this time she’d never leave him. She’d learn her lesson.

  He stepped into the room, planning his attack. He didn’t want her to hear him and call her sleeping husband. He needed to incapacitate and silence her. He lifted his left hand, prepared to slap it over her mouth. Once she was tied up, he’d go after Tim.

  The children he could deal with at his leisure.

  Then it would be just him and Chelsea. She’d be his forever.

  Just a few more steps.

  The floor squeaked under his sneaker. She turned around. He raised the knife.

  Shock stopped him in his tracks.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Put your hands on top of your head.” Lance stepped out of the closet in the nursery, both his gun and the beam of his flashlight pointed at Derek Pagano. Lance hadn’t liked Morgan’s plan one bit, but her instincts had been dead-on.

  Standing in front of the crib, wearing a blonde wig and Chelsea’s robe, Morgan pointed her own weapon at the intruder.

  Derek stopped, slack-jawed for a few second. “You!”

  Morgan pulled the wig off her head and tossed it into the crib. It landed next to the cell phone playing a recorded sound of a baby crying. Lance hadn’t liked her idea to trap Derek by pretending to be Chelsea, but he had to admit the plan had worked brilliantly. Chelsea had been upstairs when Morgan and Lance had arrived at the house. Lance’s knock on the door had scared Chelsea, and she’d been easy to convince that getting her family out of the house and letting Morgan take her place was their best chance to catch her kidnapper.

  Derek’s eyes darted to the door, to Lance’s weapon, then to Morgan.

  “Drop the knife, Derek,” Lance warned.

  Derek turned toward Morgan, the shift in his posture drawing Lance a step forward. He didn’t want to shoot the nutcase—OK, maybe he did, just a little—but he wouldn’t pull the trigger unless it was absolutely necessary.

  But Derek turned and ran out the door.

  Damn it!

  Lance couldn’t shoot a man in the back. He shoved his gun into his holster and sprinted after him. He heard Morgan behind him talking to the police.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Derek hooked one hand on the bannister, skidded through a one-eighty in the foyer, and ran for the back of the house. Lance followed him down the hall and through the family room into the kitchen.

  Derek slid to a stop at the sliding glass door. He flung it open and bolted through the opening into the back yard. Lance ran straight through. The pause to open the slider had allowed him to catch up. He was only a few feet behind him.

  What he wouldn’t give to still be on the force. He’d fry this bastard with a stun gun in a heartbeat. But it was illegal for a private citizen to own a Taser in New York State.

  Lance threw everything he had into a tackle. He pushed off one foot and dove for his running target. His arms wrapped around Derek’s legs. They crashed to the ground. Derek grunted as his body bounced on the grass. He kicked to free his legs. A heel struck Lance in the head. Stars blinked in his vision, and he lost his grip on Derek for a second.

  A second was all Derek needed.

  He scrambled away, kicking at Lance. Another foot connected with Lance’s face. Pain speared through his forehead and blood trickled into his eye. He grabbed for Derek again but missed.

  Derek got a leg under his body and stood. His steps were unsteady as he broke into a jog and headed across the yard. Lance lurched to his feet, the old wound in his thigh screaming and reminding him why he’d left the force.

  Hoping his leg held out, Lance ignored the pain and sprinted after him.

  Derek ran for the corner of the house. Lance kicked his stride into full gear. But his thigh burned with every step, and Derek drew a few feet farther ahead.

  He was going to lose him.

  Shit!

  Lungs on fire, leg on fire, Lance gave the chase one last burst of energy. It was now or never.

  No doubt Derek had left a car on the street somewhere. If he reached it . . .

  Derek glanced over his shoulder as he ran through the shadows of the side yard. Just as he cleared the house and leaped onto the driveway, a tree branch swung from out of nowhere.

  The branch clotheslined Derek. His head snapped back. His legs continued forward, and he landed on his back in the dark.

  Panting, Lance stopped next to the prone body. He grabbed Derek’s arm and rolled him onto his face. A quick pat down of his pockets turned up duct tape and rope. Lance planted a knee into Derek’s lower back to pin him in place. He pulled a set of zip ties from his own pocket and used them
to secure Derek’s wrists behind his back.

  When Derek was restrained, Lance looked up at the shadow.

  Morgan stood in the moonlight, her black hair gleaming, her face set in a determined mask.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “I was hoping he would head for the street.” Morgan crossed her arms and rubbed her biceps. “The police are on the way. Are you all right?” She pointed to her own eyebrow.

  Lance touched his forehead. His hand came away sticky and wet. “He kicked me in the head. It’s nothing.”

  “Let me go!” Derek squirmed. “You’re not cops. You can’t keep me here.”

  “I’m making a citizen’s arrest.” Lance leaned a little more weight on his knee. His thigh throbbed. “You broke in to a home armed with a weapon. And I’ll bet the police are going to find some interesting things when they search your house. You’re in big trouble, Derek.”

  “They can’t search my house. Elliot will call his lawyer. Elliot fixes everything.” Derek spat at the ground. “You’ll be sorry.”

  “Your brother can’t get you out of this one.” But Lance wondered how many other crimes Derek had committed.

  “Why did you do it, Derek?” Morgan asked.

  “I love her.” Blood trickled from the corner of Derek’s mouth. “She’s mine.”

  “She’s married to Tim,” Morgan said.

  “Chelsea was unhappy.” Anger fueled Derek’s words. “Tim doesn’t know how to keep a woman. I do. Women need to be dominated. They can’t make decisions. They don’t know what they want.”

  “Is that why your girlfriend broke up with you?” Morgan asked.

  “She’s a stupid bitch,” Derek snapped. “I tried being nice to her, but that didn’t make her happy. Women don’t want a nice man. They want a man who takes control. They want decisions made for them.”

  Morgan’s head tilted. “You tried that with your girlfriend.”

  “If I could have kept her for a few weeks, I could have turned her attitude around. But the bitch ran off to London.” Bitterness clipped Derek’s words.