Chapter 10

TEN

Gulf Shores, Alabama

Tuesday, September 17

2:15 p.m.

She'd stared at the detective's card for hours.

But Elyse knew what she had to do.

It was her only recourse, wasn't it? To prove she'd been at that house. That her attack had been real.

She listened for the shower to start from the attached bathroom off the main bedroom. Despite the assault and the concussion and the questions surrounding what'd happened yesterday morning, Wesley wouldn't let anything interrupt his extended lunch routine. There were no missed leg days or pool laps. No rescheduled meetings. Because the mental torture he put himself through for failing to stay on top of his goals would be far worse than anything she or his employer could dole out. There was always surfing lessons, a round of golf at the club, a lunch date with an old data science buddy from his days at University of Illinois, where they'd met. It was unhealthy the way he drove himself day-to-day, but over the years she'd learned working on a project really was a kind of rest for him. Whereas she seemed to have to earn it.

The shower glass door suctioned shut with a hard thud.

That was her cue.

Elyse grabbed for Wesley's phone left on the dresser and thumbed in the password. Her breath shook as she considered what might happen next, that her brain could be feeding her the wrong information. No. She wasn't crazy. She'd been attacked at that house. And she wanted to know why.

She punched in Detective Moore's number—a direct line—and hit the round phone icon at the bottom of the screen. Her fingers ached as she gripped the phone and brought it to her ear. One ring. Two. There was a possibility the detective might not answer.

Surely, Elyse's case wasn't the only investigation on her plate. There was that missing girl. The one Elyse had read about in the insufferable hours she'd been forced to take it easy yesterday afternoon. Police were asking the public for any information as to her whereabouts. What was the girl's name? She was fifteen. Just a little older than Ava. Ruby something. Davis? She was sure Ruby hadn't been one of Ava's friends here in Gulf Shores, but it was all too easy to replace that young woman's face with her daughter's.

The line connected. "Moore."

"Detective." Elyse floundered with the sudden thrust back into reality. "Hi. It's me."

Except she and the detective weren't on "it's me" terms, were they? They didn't know each other. They weren't friends. She and Leigh had gotten there in the past few months, and the comfort of that greeting provided something she hadn't felt since she and Wesley had first started dating. There was a sense of ownership, commitment, and familiarity. Not even her brothers—both of whom she'd practically raised their entire lives while their parents worked—used "it's me." When they bothered to reach out at all. "Elyse Portman. We met yesterday at the hospital."

"I remember you, Mrs. Portman." A screech pierced through the other end of the line. Like a desk chair overdue for a good greasing. "What can I do for you?"

The detective's lack of small talk fused doubt alongside the strategy she'd devised over the past few hours. She supposed a woman like Detective Moore—Henrietta, according to her business card—liked to get to the point and would expect everyone else around her to do the same.

"You asked me to call you if I remembered anything more about what happened yesterday morning." There was no turning back now. She had to pull the trigger. She had to know if these images in her head were real. "I know where I was attacked."

Silence pooled in the line. Thick and heavy.

Elyse couldn't stand it. "Detective?"

"Can you give me the location?" A brightness infused the detective's voice. Detective Moore most likely had that pad and pen she carried with her at the ready.

"Yes." Elyse recalled the exact address from the piece of mail she'd pocketed this morning, the one she'd memorized over and over. "11103 Mobile Street. It's a beach house. Tan siding, a big pool built into the deck."

The more details she could convince the detective she could recall seemed the best route. It wasn't exactly a lie. She was overly familiar with the house at this point. Just not from her memories before the attack.

"There was a man. I still can't picture his face." That part was true. Neither her memories nor her surveillance of Samuel Thornton had given her much detail. "But I think he lives there. I think… I think he pushed me over the railing. That must be when I lost my phone."

The high-pitched sound of water hitting tile cut short from the other room. Wesley had finished his shower faster than she'd estimated. She had to wrap this up or explain what she'd been doing behind her husband's back. And there wasn't anything for her to explain. Not yet.

"So you can't be sure it was the homeowner who confronted you, as you told me yesterday morning?" the detective asked. "The man who was yelling at you?"

"I can't imagine who else it might be." The words left her mouth sharper than she'd intended. She wanted to be the cooperative witness, the victim that would help law enforcement get to the truth. Elyse moved into the hallway. She closed the door behind her to ensure Wesley couldn't overhear, but there was no way he wouldn't notice his phone missing from the dresser. It was essentially glued to his hand throughout the day other than during his morning swim laps, his afternoon showers, and their nightly sex. Movement registered from downstairs. Seemed Ava had finally gotten around to foraging for food.

"Okay. I appreciate the information." The detective had lost that brightness in her voice. Did she not believe what Elyse had told her? Or did she just not care? "I will look into this as soon as I can and call you with an update. Can I reach you at this number?"

"No." Panic raised her voice an octave. "I'll just… I'll meet you there."

Detective Moore's protests barely reached her ears as Elyse ended the call. Almost instantly, an incoming number registered on the screen, but she sent it to voicemail and hurriedly scrolled to the call log to clear out the evidence of their conversation. Noticing several outgoing calls to a repeated number. Each made between ten at night and four in the morning over the past few days.

While she'd been asleep.

Another vain attempt from Detective Moore filled the screen, and Elyse canceled the call a second time. She deleted the calls she'd made and received and slipped back into the bedroom to replace Wesley's phone.

Just as he stepped from the bathroom, freshly shaven, smelling of his soap and shampoo. A small tug hooked into her stomach at the sight of him. Handsome as ever, even more so than when they'd first met. Because of the life experiences they'd shared together. The ups and downs. The bond they'd built. But that didn't seem to be enough for him. "Were you talking to someone?"

"Just Ava. She finally decided to grace us with her presence." She could ask him about the middle-of-the-night calls, but what would be the point? Detective Moore would be on her way to the beach house on Mobile Street, and Elyse intended to be there when she questioned the homeowner. "I'm going to stop by the library to grab the books they have on hold for me. Do you want me to pick anything up?"

"No. Thanks." His dark gaze cut to his phone as the screen lit up. And in that moment he was gone. He grabbed it from the dresser. Already disconnected from the conversation.

"All right." She headed for the door, but there was something in her chest that wouldn't let go. Elyse turned, her hand on the doorknob. "I love you."

There wasn't an answer. Wesley was already engaged with a digital conversation she couldn't compare to in importance. His inattention hurt—more than she wanted to admit—but she also knew it was part of him.

Elyse jogged down the stairs into the entryway and collected her purse.

"Where are you going?" Ava shuffled across the uneven floorboards with a bowl of cereal in one hand and a spoon in the other. Her daughter had taken on all the characteristics Elyse loved about herself—the dark hair, the honey-brown eyes, and straight nose—and unfairly magnified them times a hundred. "Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"I'll be back soon. Just headed to the library. Need anything?" Elyse didn't have long to get to the beach house to meet Detective Moore.

"Gross. Nobody uses the library anymore, Mom." Her daughter shuffled back down the hall toward the kitchen, the stained hems of her pajama pants dragging.

"What's wrong with the library?" Elyse didn't expect an answer, and she didn't get one. Instead, she got behind the wheel of the SUV and navigated back to the Branyon Backcountry Trail. A spot opened just as she arrived. Right beside a Gulf Shores PD patrol car.

Detective Moore was already here.

Her jeans rubbed in all the wrong places as the humidity settled in, but she couldn't afford to slow down either. Faster than she expected, the dunes came into sight. Elyse didn't bother checking for cyclists or runners to notice she'd stepped off the trail. Two figures took shape in front of the beach house. This was it. This was when she'd get the truth.

Recognition flared as she closed in on Detective Moore. The man had yet to notice her until the investigator broke conversation. "Mrs. Portman, you aren't supposed to be here."

The homeowner—presumably Samuel Thornton—turned to face her. A deep crease divided the man's forehead in half horizontally, putting him somewhere late thirties, early forties. Older than her. Ear-length blond hair curled at the ends. Almost flippantly, but Elyse had the feeling Samuel Thornton was anything but flippant. A full beard and worn smile lines added to his grunge appearance in a work shirt and jeans. "Who are you?"

The yelling at the back of her brain had started again. Hey! What are you doing here? You're trespassing on my property. Pain thundered through her head. Right over her eyebrow, as though she were reliving it all over again. "That's him. He's the one who attacked me."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about." Thornton's expression contorted with panic. Survival. "I've never seen you before in my life."

Detective Moore set a hand on Elyse's shoulder while turning to face the man at her back.

"I can prove it." Elyse maneuvered free of the detective's hold and bolted for the wood-slatted path leading beneath the house. She spotted the mound where she'd buried her broken phone and collapsed onto both knees. Then started digging.

"Hey! You can't just come onto my property." Samuel Thornton's voice closed in from behind. "Don't you people need a warrant?"

"Mr. Thornton, I'm going to have to ask you to stay put." Detective Moore hadn't made a request. It was an order.

"This is ridiculous. I don't know this woman." Thornton's protests fell flat. "What the hell is she doing?"

Sand turned coarse between Elyse's fingers the deeper she dug. Oversized handfuls of dampness and earth. One after the other. But there was no phone. She started a few inches to the left, creating another hole at least a foot down. Empty. Desperation ignited the pain in her shoulder. It'd been right here. She was sure of it. She wasn't crazy. "I don't understand."

A hand clamped onto her shoulder from her left. Detective Moore. "Mrs. Portman, let's get you back home."

"No. It has to be here. He must've moved it." Elyse let the detective help her to her feet. "I'm not crazy." Wasn't that what crazy people said? I'm not crazy! Why won't you just believe me?

Detective Moore guided her off the property with a firm grip and an apology for Elyse's actions. "She's had a very rough couple of days."

Only the detective didn't seem to catch Samuel Thornton's sly smile as Elyse looked back.

Within fifteen minutes, Elyse was hiking up her front steps with Detective Moore's attention boring into her back. Ensuring she went inside. That she didn't try to go back to that beach house. She wouldn't be surprised if the detective recommended a restraining order.

She'd have to catch a ride-share to collect her SUV at the trailhead, but that was the least of her problems right now. Gulf Shores PD wasn't taking her seriously. Detective Moore didn't believe Samuel Thornton had attacked her. But that would change.

Elyse locked the door behind her, leaning against the glass. Sand gritted beneath her fingernails. It would take a good scrubbing to get it out.

Ava's bare footsteps thudded down the stairs. Then slowed. Her daughter took in the wet stains on the front of Elyse's clothing, the sand that would spread throughout the house. And stilled. "You didn't go to the library, did you?"

A hint of fear pierced that beautiful face.

Elyse pushed away from the door and climbed the two steps to put them on even ground. She framed one side of her daughter's face—prepared to do whatever it took to get that look of fear to go away—and wrapped Ava in a grounding hug. "Not yet. There was something else I had to take care of."