Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

Gulf Shores, Alabama

Wednesday, September 18

6:12 a.m.

Wesley hadn't been in their room when she'd come home last night.

Guilt ate at her as she'd slid into bed, her hand reaching for him. Only to find his side of the bed empty. It hadn't been until she'd come downstairs into the living room that she noted the blanket and pillow folded on one end of the couch. Their heated conversation wound circles through her brain. How she'd accused him of not putting her at the top of his priority list. How she'd thrown his mistakes in his face. How she'd left him standing there in the middle of the trail. This… wasn't her.

In all honesty, she didn't like the woman she was becoming. Disregarding her husband's concern for her safety. Putting her needs before anyone else's. Even Ava's. Elyse couldn't even remember the last time she'd had a full conversation with her daughter. What fourteen-year-old enjoyed that anyway? Wesley had made the choice to have an affair all those years ago—maybe even again—but she was the one putting a wedge between them now. Between her and the very people she cared about the most.

Elyse stepped off the trail. Knowing full well there was no going back from this. She'd thought it through. Waited for the right time. The truck usually parked beneath the beach house had left a few minutes ago with Samuel Thornton behind the wheel. It was now or never.

She jogged across the sand. Watching for early-morning runners along the shoreline or fishing boats that might be able to place her in the area. There was no one. Not even the sun had dared raise its face this early. Flashlight in hand, she followed the all-too-familiar trail leading to the back stairs of the beach house and cut straight for the storage room.

The door was still ajar. Elyse powered on the flashlight and wrenched the door back on its hinges. And froze.

It was empty.

She crossed the threshold. No mattress. No pillow. No strewn food wrappers across the floor. All gone. She shook her head as if the movement would rewind time and convince her she wasn't crazy, but it changed nothing. A worn broom with a dustpan that attached to the handle tilted against the wall. Nothing else. "That's not possible."

Elyse backtracked through the door. A padlock protested as she bumped the edge. Someone had been living in this storage room. Someone had been locked inside against their will, and she was going to prove it. No matter what it took.

Her footsteps were much more sure climbing the stairs to the deck level this time. There was no question of who'd attacked her two days ago. And now she had motive. Why Samuel Thornton might not want anyone coming around his house. Why he'd resorted to getting rid of the phone she'd buried in the sand out front. Why he'd lied to Detective Moore. Because anyone who'd taken the time to look closer would've seen the truth: Samuel Thornton was dangerous.

She bypassed the amazing view staring out into an entire empty void of black and tested the doorknob on the first set of double glass doors leading into the house. Locked. It made sense. With the events over the past few days, a homeowner possibly holding a person against their will couldn't be too careful. Elyse followed the curve of the deck. She tucked the flashlight into one of the thigh pockets on her running shorts, planted her palm against the nearest window, and shoved the pane upward. It wouldn't budge. She tested the others too, with the same result. There was no getting inside.

Unless… Elyse stepped back, studying the second deck overhead. Four columns supported the underside of a balcony she assumed attached to the main bedroom of the house. She'd already taken a dive off the main level. There was no telling what kind of damage she'd sustain if she fell trying to climb to the second story. Or if she'd survive at all. But there didn't seem to be any other option without breaking a window. The second Samuel Thornton suspected a break-in, he'd accuse her of having something to do with it. He wouldn't be wrong, but she couldn't take the risk. Not yet. And suspecting there might be a hostage inside was enough to make this all worth it.

Which meant she had to find a way to get to that second balcony. She targeted the dining table set perfectly positioned at the other end of the deck for an exquisite view at sunset. Funny how a man like Samuel Thornton—a man she suspected of kidnapping—put so much attention to detail on making this house look picture-perfect. Maybe that was what had fooled people for so long. Kept the community from looking too closely. From what she'd been able to gather over the past twenty-four hours, he isolated himself. No pets to take care of. No romantic interest or coworkers dropping by. She would check in with the nearest grocery store and see what else she could get from his mail, but for all intents and purposes, Samuel Thornton was alone. And he liked it that way.

Elyse pulled the dining-set chairs away from the table and cleared a path. Her shoulder argued its protest, but she couldn't let it stop her now. The table was heavier than she'd expected, catching on planks of composite. And most likely leaving scratch marks behind. She didn't care. After centering the table beneath the balcony, she climbed onto the surface. Just reaching the first safety wire on the handrail. The flimsy wire—more decorative than functional—lost its sturdiness in her hand. Would it snap under her weight?

There was only one way to find out.

She gripped the wiring with both hands and pulled. Her toes left the stability of the table, and she kicked out to give herself a bit of momentum up. The muscles in her shoulder were screaming now, threatening to tear. Her insides burned with oxygen stuck in her chest. She'd made it this far. She wasn't going to give up. Elyse put everything she had into one hand and rocketed her free hand to grab for the next wire.

Her shoulder gave out.

Her body dropped. She grabbed for something—anything—to keep her from falling. Her opposite hand latched higher up. The wire cut into her palm. The pain ordered her to let go. Blood seeped from the creases and dripped down her wrist. And Elyse stared down the length of her body. At the distance between her and the dining table now. She couldn't go back. Not without getting answers. "You can do this. You have to do this."

Raising one foot, she tried to hook her heel onto the lowest deck plank. And missed. The safety wires strung horizontally from one side of the balcony to the other groaned. Groans that said she had mere seconds. Elyse tried again. Her heel planted against the edge of the plank. Giving her enough leverage to climb higher. Within seconds, she threw herself over the handrail and landed on her back. Out of breath. Her hand hurt like hell. Her shoulder wouldn't budge. She made a fist as though that could solve all her problems.

The sun started casting its rays overhead. Exposing her to anyone who happened to glance in the direction of the house. Elyse set her gaze on the set of three narrow doors leading into the house. Crawling to stand, she clutched her injured hand to her chest and reached for the doorknob with the other.

It turned in her palm.

The door's weatherstripping hissed as she pushed inside. Cool air kissed her face. Elyse hadn't realized how much of a sweat she'd worked up in the past few minutes, but it was easily done with Alabama humidity. If a forensic team had the opportunity to collect samples from this house, they would have no problem identifying her as a potential intruder. Something she might have to come back to fix later.

She memorized the layout of an upstairs living room. Not the main bedroom as she'd assumed, but her position at the edge of the dunes hadn't given her a clear view to the second floor. Soft couches and ottomans hugged the walls with two leather chairs facing the glass doors. Blue and beige motel art highlighting boats and ocean waves took up the walls with accents of navy. So…very non-threatening. Doubt crept in, slowly at first. Then all-encompassing. This didn't fit the style of the grungy, unkempt man she suspected of assaulting her two days ago. More like a mask. A picture-perfect lie.

Elyse moved to a door on her right. It looked like a guest bedroom. Not large but done in the same beige and navy palette as the living room. The queen-sized bed had been made up. Not the twin-sized mattress she'd discovered in the storage room a mere eight hours ago. A bathroom—completely renovated— attached at the opposite end of the room. No signs it'd been used recently or of a visiting guest.

She searched the room stocked with two sets of crisp white bunkbeds. Each held twin-sized mattresses—the same size as the one she'd found underneath the house in that cold, dark room. Peeling back the sheets on each one, Elyse pressed her palm into her shirt to keep the blood in her hand from spreading. None of the mattresses looked as if they'd suffered through a night outside. She straightened. Why keep someone in a storage room on a bare mattress, supplied with water and snacks with all this extra room inside? To limit the spread of evidence? To keep their screams from disrupting his beauty sleep? She didn't know. Wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Another room, nearly identical to the first, fit another queen-sized. All untouched. All pristine. All for show. Closets empty. Rugs perfectly vacuumed.

It was the largest bedroom, the one that faced out over the ocean, that drew her inside. The bed had been made in here, too. Not quite as perfectly as the others. There were toiletries strewn across the bathroom counter, a wet film left in the shower.

Elyse touched them, one by one. Hoping to gain some kind of understanding about the man who owned them, but that might've been asking for too much from a stick of deodorant. And a gold metallic disk. A small loop had been strung through the hole. A pendant missing its chain. Turning it over it her palm, she ran her thumb over the engraved "P" perfectly gouged into the metal in typewritten font. Small but unassuming. A gift? Or heirloom? She didn't know, and she didn't have time to find out. A sense of urgency filtered into her veins. She wrenched open the vanity's drawers, searched underneath cabinets. How could anyone possibly be this clean? No smudges on the granite. No toothpaste spit on the faucet or mirror. Perhaps Samuel Thornton suffered from an intense fear of germs.

Or was determined not to leave any evidence of himself behind.

She moved back into the bedroom. There was almost a vibration of panic in her body as she flipped back the covers on the bed. She needed something—anything—to prove she wasn't crazy. That the man she'd confronted had attacked her. That he was keeping someone in this house against their will.

Unless… Elyse tried not to allow the idea to take shape, but it was too late. Unless she'd gotten too close and forced him to make a rash decision. No. She couldn't think about that right now. She studied the sheets, and a wave of relief chased back the unsteadiness of her own thoughts. "Bingo."

She pulled a long dark hair from one of the pillows. Not Samuel's. His was more blond. Shorter, with some gray. This… this was something else. Elyse held it up in the light coming through the window. A woman's hair? Except she hadn't noticed a woman the past few days. Which meant it'd had to come from whomever had been locked in the storage room. It made sense. Now she just had to prove it.

Elyse went back to the bathroom, the hair pinched between her fingers. She emptied a baggie of what looked like ibuprofen from the men's toiletry case and slipped the hair inside. Sealing it before shoving it deep into her pocket. Okay. That was enough breaking and entering for one day. Her courage waned as she navigated back into the upstairs living room. There was no way she'd be able to lower herself down with this shoulder or the cut across her hand. She'd have to leave from the main level. Move the dining table and chairs back in place.

The hair in her pocket almost burned against her thigh as she jogged down the light-colored laminate steps. She rounded down into a separate mudroom off to one side of the main level that hid the staircase. Noting a piece of paper peeking out from something that looked close to a coat closet. More mail? Maybe something that would tell her exactly who the man she'd been watching was. Then again, it could be nothing but a grocery list or receipt. Curiosity dampened logic, and she crossed to the closet, pulling the paper free.

Not a grocery list. A photo.

Recognition flared the longer Elyse memorized the subject's fine lines, dark hair, and wide smile. She grabbed for the closet's handle and nearly ripped the door off its hinges. A dozen other photos fluttered in the disturbance. Other items too. News articles, handwritten notes. Torn pages. The photos highlighted differing angles, some up close, some taken from a distance. Almost like the subject had been unaware of them at all. But they all featured the same person.

Ruby Davis. The missing teen girl Elyse had seen on TV.