by Nicole Helm
“Then we’ll find it.”
She took a deep breath and let it out, straightening her shoulders as she drove up the bumpy, curving drive to the main house.
He liked that he’d calmed her some, and wished he could feel it inside of himself, but mostly he felt the same way she did. Something didn’t feel right, and he didn’t know what.
“You have to deal with this every case?”
“Deal with what?”
“That dogged not knowing what is going on?”
“Not every case, but some. A lot of not knowing is part of the job.”
“Your job blows.”
Her mouth curved. “It’s not such a bad thing, putting it all together, knowing you can.”
“Well, if you know you can, you can. So, you should stop ranting.”
“I thought it turned you on.”
Grady chuckled, but it died when they reached the house. “He’s not here.”
“He could have parked in one of the outbuildings, couldn’t he?”
“Could have, but wouldn’t.” Clint wasn’t that thorough. Grady shaded his eyes against the setting sun and looked around the property before turning his attention back to Laurel. “We should head back into town. Retrace what would have been his steps. They might have stopped somewhere to make out or something, but...”
“But maybe not. Is Ty in town?” she asked, already reversing the car and heading back the way they’d come. “We could split up our search and meet in the middle.”
“Good thinking.” Grady sent a quick message off to Ty as Laurel sped down the drive they’d just ambled up. Her gaze was shrewd on the road, hands grasped tight on the steering wheel, and it was an odd thing to not be in charge and not have it grate.
But his little brother might be in trouble and there wasn’t a lot of room for any other emotions above fear.
“Keep your eyes peeled and tell me if you see anything,” Laurel said. But as they drove, all he saw was road and the expanse of a Wyoming landscape.
“He’s dead to me,” Grady muttered, pissed off beyond belief the way fear gripped him. But he’d been attacked and threatened, a man had been killed, and now his brother was nowhere.
“Keep trying his cell,” Laurel instructed calmly.
Anyone else’s calmness in this situation would have only served to stoke his irritation higher, but something about Laurel’s no-nonsense approach and the clear seriousness she took this with soothed rather than rattled.
“Let’s stop at the gas station, see if anyone noticed anything. Ty should be catching up with us soon.”
“Okay.”
Laurel pulled into the gas station’s parking lot and pushed her door open, but she glanced at him before she stepped out. She reached over, squeezed his forearm. “We’ll find him. We will.”
He took in those serious brown eyes and the determined set of her jaw and he nodded, some of that panic settling into something a lot more peaceful.
He stepped out with her and heard his name shouted. Clint burst from the front door of the station, blood dripping down his face. “Grady!”
Grady grabbed his brother, trying to figure out why he had blood all over him. He opened his mouth to demand answers, but Clint was already talking.
“Someone grabbed her. Just...grabbed her.” He turned to Laurel, all heavy breathing and fear and desperation. “You gotta find her.”
“Did you call the police?” Laurel asked composedly, though her whole body had tensed next to his.
“You are the police!”
Laurel didn’t respond to that, but immediately began speaking in low tones into her radio.
“What was she wearing?” Laurel asked.
“Uh. Jeans. A T-shirt. Pink, I think. Pinkish. She had my jacket on. Leather jacket.”
“What can you tell me about the car?” Laurel asked gently.
Clint swallowed, tears clearly swimming in his eyes. “Black. Slick.” Clint rattled off a few possible makes and models. “The plate wasn’t Wyoming. It was yellow, I think. Yellowish or something close.”
Laurel relayed the information into her radio as Ty roared into the gas station, screeching to a halt on his motorcycle in front of them. “What’s going on?”
“We need to get him to a hospital,” Grady said roughly.
“No way, man. I have to find her.”
“That gash is nasty. You need stitches. Did you lose consciousness?”
“No, I’m fine. They just knocked me down and I hit my head. He was gone by the time I got back up.”
“Did Lizzie know the man who took her?” Laurel interjected.
“No! He had a ski mask thing on. I was gassing up and he just got out of his car and pushed me down and grabbed her. It took me a minute to get up and he shoved her in the car and left.”
“He knocked you out.”
“Whatever, man,” Clint replied, pushing Grady’s concerned hand away. “We have to find her. We have to.”
“We’ve got a lot to go on. Write anything else you can think of down, okay? Ty, you take him to the hospital. I’ll send an officer to watch and take Clint’s statement.”
“And what are we doing?” Grady asked.
“This time, we’re getting consent to search Adams’s house without having to wait around for a search warrant.” She stopped midstep toward the car and then turned to him. “I mean, you don’t have to come with me. I’ve given Lizzie’s name and description to county, and I’ve sent the closest officer to the hospital to question Clint. You’d be safe there, if you want to be with Clint. I’d under—”
“I’ll be safe with you, too. Let’s go.”
Chapter Fourteen
Laurel knocked on Mr. Adams’s door for the second time in two days. When Mr. Adams opened the door, his face was red, his thinning hair wild. “Did you find her? Is she—”
“Mr. Adams, I need consent to search your house. We’re looking for any clues that might help us find Lizzie.”
“My...consent.” The man choked on something like a sob, but Laurel couldn’t let that sway her. “My daughter is missing.”
“Yes, and the Bent County Sheriff’s Department is doing everything in their power to find her. Including this. If you give us consent, Deputy Hart and I will search the entire house.” Laurel nodded at Hart, who was standing behind her. “We’ll take anything that might aid us in finding her whereabouts.”
“I...” Mr. Adams raked his shaking hands through his hair. “All right. You can search the house.”
“Sign this, please.” Laurel nodded to Hart, who held out the consent form. With shaking hands, Mr. Adams signed it.
“If you’d leave the door open while we search, and find somewhere out of the way to be.” She glanced back at Grady, whom she’d instructed to stay in the car.
He, of course, wasn’t in the car, but leaning against it, looking somehow lazy and lethal at the same time, the stitches on his head adding to the dangerous vibe. She sighed heavily. She didn’t like leaving him out there, but there weren’t a lot of choices right now.
“I... You...” Mr. Adams made another choking sound, but he finally got out of the way of the door.
“Upstairs. First door on your left,” Laurel directed Hart.
Laurel herself headed through the lower level of the house while Mr. Adams trailed after her, sputtering ineffectively. What she wanted to find was some kind of home office or place where he’d have things related to work. “I don’t suppose you have any information as to who might have taken your daughter, or why.”
“Miss Delaney, I don’t know who’s responsible,” Mr. Adams rasped.
“If you say so,” she returned evenly, ignoring the Miss instead of Deputy.
“No, I mean, I don’t know their name or anything to identify them by. The man I’ve been working
for is a nameless, faceless entity. I get messages, and I act on them. I don’t keep my job if I don’t act on them.”
Laurel whirled on the admission. “So this has something to do with the mine?”
Mr. Adams sank into a chair, rubbing his hands over his face. “Yes. I guess. I was just told to get rid of some papers. To cover some things up. When Jason started poking around...” He looked up at her plaintively. “I didn’t kill him. I don’t have anything to do with this except paperwork.”
“I need to know everything about the paperwork. I need a list of anyone who is above you and would be affected if the information you destroyed got out. I need everything you know, Mr. Adams. For Lizzie’s sake.”
He swallowed audibly and nodded. “My office is upstairs. I don’t have anything specific, but I can write down some things. They took Lizzie because she’s been...” His voice broke and he cleared his throat. “I don’t know why, but she’s been poking around my work. Asking me questions about the mine, about Jason, and I didn’t know what was going on. I figured she’d get bored of it, but—”
“Delaney,” Hart called from above. “I found a license plate number written on a scrap of paper.”
Laurel met Hart at the bottom of the stairs, glancing at the looping scrawl of what had to be a license plate number.
“Call it in. Have someone check it out,” she said.
Hart nodded and started talking into his radio.
Laurel turned her attention to the man behind her. A man who’d clearly done some illegal things, but was scared sick by his daughter’s disappearance and his worry for her.
“Show me your office.”
He started walking and she followed him up the stairs while Hart stood in the entryway, relaying his information to dispatch.
Mr. Adams led her to a small room at the end of the hall. It was nicely decorated, dominated by a huge desk. There was a recliner in the corner and everything was neat as a pin.
“I don’t bring anything home, and everything I was told to destroy, I destroyed, but I... Lately I’ve been getting nervous, what with the murder and all, so I started keeping a list.” With shaking hands, Mr. Adams opened up a drawer, then reached toward the back, popping something that turned out to be a false bottom.
But instead of a piece of paper or anything innocent, there was a gun. Clear as day. Mr. Adams gasped.
“It isn’t mine,” he whispered, his voice sounding strained. “I don’t own a gun. I don’t.”
Laurel pulled rubber gloves out of her utility belt and put them on. She picked up the weapon. It was exactly the kind of gun that could have killed Jason Delaney. She closed her eyes for a minute because she wasn’t stupid.
Mr. Adams wasn’t the murderer, but someone sure wanted her to think he was.
“My notes. They’re gone,” Mr. Adams gasped, pawing around the false bottom. But it was empty save for the gun. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”
“Hart,” Laurel barked.
After a few seconds, the deputy appeared. His eyes widened when he saw what Laurel was holding.
“I need you to run the serial number on this gun.” She rattled it off to him and Hart relayed the number to dispatch. She racked her brain for a reason to take in Mr. Adams so they could have him in custody while they ran ballistics on the weapon, because as long as his daughter wasn’t safe, neither was he. Neither were Clint and Hank, for that matter.
The radio squawked and everyone in the room heard the results clear as day. “That gun has been reported as stolen.”
Laurel glanced at Mr. Adams, who looked panic-stricken. “Stolen? I don’t own a gun. I haven’t stolen a gun. That isn’t mine! My notes are gone!”
“Hart. Arrest him.”
“No. No! I didn’t do anything. Please, understand. I didn’t... They’re making this...”
“Mr. Adams,” Laurel began firmly so he’d stop blubbering and listen. “You have a stolen weapon in your home. I have to arrest you. We’ll need to run ballistics on it, and if it comes back as the murder weapon in the Jason Delaney case—”
“What have I done? Oh, God.” Mr. Adams began to cry, and Laurel almost felt sympathy for the man, but he’d gotten himself mixed up in some ugly business.
“Consider this the best thing for you right now, Mr. Adams. You’ll be safe, and this might be leverage we can use to get Lizzie released. If whoever has her is worried about being linked to the murder, having someone arrested for it might lower their guard. If it’s the murder weapon.”
He calmed a little bit at that.
“Hart, I want you to arrest him and take him to the station, and get a recording of everything he can remember about the documents he destroyed. Along with anyone he might want to implicate.”
Hart stepped forward and went through the steps to arrest Mr. Adams while Laurel continued to look through all the drawers. She sat down at the desk as Hart led Mr. Adams away. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she could confiscate the computer along with the murder weapon.
She wasn’t sure she believed Mr. Adams was completely ignorant of who was behind all of this, but a trip to the station and videotaped questioning might help jog his memory. If nothing else, she truly believed it would convince the real killer they weren’t still looking for him.
“I thought we decided he wasn’t the murderer.”
Laurel glanced over her shoulder to find Grady taking up the entire doorway. “You shouldn’t be in here,” she said, though the words were a waste and she knew it. “I don’t think he’s the murderer, but someone wants us to think he is. I don’t have any proof he’s not the murderer. A stolen weapon in the house is enough to bring him in.”
She turned back to the desk. “I have to search everything. Once I’m done, and I’ve compiled all the evidence I’ve found, we’ll drop it off at the station, then head over to the hospital and see if Clint remembers anything.”
“You have to sleep at some point, princess.”
Her shoulders slumped and the wave of exhaustion she’d been fighting off with sheer adrenaline threatened to topple her. “Yeah, at some point. But not yet.” A few more steps and then she could think about sleep.
Grady’s large hand covered her shoulder, squeezed. She looked up at him with a million snippy responses she knew she needed to give him. But all she wanted to do was lean into him. Rest against him.
Which wasn’t something she could allow herself. “Wait downstairs. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be down as soon as I’m done.”
He didn’t remove his hand. Instead, the other came up and cradled her cheek, gentle as could be. Something like a lump lodged itself in her throat at the sheer wanting. Wanting him. Wanting sleep. Wanting to just rest.
“I’ll go downstairs. You’ve got half an hour to finish up. Then you’ll drop off anything you need to at the station. After that, you’re heading straight for bed.”
“Is that an order?”
He grinned that horrible, lust-inducing grin. “Yeah, I think it is.”
It was the simply kind, almost caring way he said it that made the lump in her throat impossible to swallow. “Decided you’re my caretaker now?” she asked through a tight throat.
“I think we mutually decided that for each other. Get to work, Deputy. I’m tired, too.”
On a deep breath, Laurel pulled out of the grasp of Grady’s rough hands and did just that.
* * *
GRADY’D HAD HIS fill of waiting for people. He’d also had his fill of Laurel looking like she was about to keel over, and then pressing forward as if her sheer force of will could keep her awake for years.
Hell, maybe it could. She walked out of the sheriff’s department looking with-it and strong no matter that legions of shadows existed under her eyes. So much so he could see them even in the parking lot lights.
“How’s Clint?” she a
sked.
“Hospital released him. Ty’s taking him back to the ranch and him, Noah and Vanessa will keep him out of trouble. I gave him your number in case he remembers something important.”
She nodded. “Good.”
He hopped off the hood of her car, where he’d been sitting and waiting. “I’m driving.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can’t drive my county-issued vehicle, Carson.”
“Why not?”
“It’s against the law. Plus, you’ve had a concussion.”
“I believe that was something like twenty-four hours ago. Which means I’m okay to drive now.”
“God, has it been twenty-four hours?” She raked her hands through her hair, which had come out of its band at some point between finding Clint and now.
“Heck of a twenty-four hours.”
She huffed out something close to a laugh. “I suppose.” She pulled her keys out of her pocket. “If anyone asks, you put a gun to my head before I let you drive my car.”
“Got it.” He took her keys, trying to tone down his self-satisfied smirk a little bit.
She slid into the passenger seat, her eyes already drooping, and he turned the keys in the ignition.
He didn’t bother to talk. He let her lean against the window by her side as he drove them away from the sheriff’s department and toward Bent. The long way. Because he had a bad feeling that wherever he stopped, she’d pop back up into Deputy Delaney mode and never get any real rest.
So he drove through the glittering late night, enjoying the peace and the stars, and only finally heading to Laurel’s place when he started to come perilously close to dozing off himself.
As he drove Laurel’s car up the smooth, curving drive that led to her cabin on the fancy Delaney spread, he couldn’t help wondering at this thing inside of him.
He’d been bred to hate Delaneys. Told stories of their wrongdoings over the centuries. He’d reveled in that. Being the underdogs, the dangerous ones. He’d used it to excuse the things he’d wanted to excuse in his life.
But Laurel had never fit with all that fiction he’d allowed himself. Something vibrant and good with this odd tug between them he’d always known was there, but had sought to avoid.
