Silence.
I take another look around before answering his unspoken question. "She wanted Storm."
More silence. I glance over, and he's just standing there, brow furrowed.
"The dog?" he says finally.
I drop to all fours and peer about near ground level, still searching. Then I say, "An error in judgment on my part. When she was interested in Storm, I jumped on that as a topic of conversation. Of connection."
I rise and brush off my knees. "I told her how we've taught Storm to track. I showed her how well trained she was. I said how gentle she was. How much bigger she'd get. Apparently, that was like showing off your new vehicle's special features to a car thief."
"You're serious?"
I nod.
"That's fucked up."
"It is."
I stand in the clearing. Think. Think some more. I'm so enrapt in my thoughts that I don't realize Dalton is right there until I turn and bash into him.
When I lean against him, his arm goes around me.
"You okay?" he says.
"I wasn't the one accused of murdering three people."
I feel him shrug as he says, "It was all for show. Just pissed me off."
I chuckle and shake my head. His arm tightens around me. "Something's bugging you."
"Everything's bugging me," I say as I step back. "We've left Gregory Wallace with people who know his stepson murdered their friends. To get him back, we need to turn over Brady. Which means finding Brady. Which we've been trying to do since this whole damned thing started and--"
Another squeeze as Dalton kisses the top of my head. "We'll get Wallace back. In the meantime, they won't hurt him. No point in it. If we'd left Storm, that'd be a whole different matter, apparently. But no one's going to want Wallace."
I give a strained laugh.
Dalton continues, "This just raises the stakes. Motivates us. Because, you know, we were just sitting on our asses before, trying to decide if we wanted to bother looking for this Brady guy."
I shake my head.
"Let's get to Rockton," Dalton says. "See if Phil made it back okay."
"Phil . . . Oh, shit."
"Yeah, I know. Come on. We'll--"
"One last thing. Sorry. I just want to check . . ."
I trail off as my brain finally homes in on the source of that niggling thought.
As Dalton follows, he says, "Something's up."
"Just . . . I just want to check this."
A grunt says he isn't happy with my answer. He doesn't ask again, though, just lets his dissatisfaction be known.
"This is where we found Harper's grandmother, right?" I say.