After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

God help me.

Her phone vibrated and she pulled it from her pocket.

She saw Trent’s text and nearly collapsed in relief.

He was alive! That was the good news. The bad? He was warning her, telling her to get to safety and he wasn’t calling or leaving the barn. He’d said he was okay, but she doubted it as he was still in the dark barn. Somewhere. Hiding? Hoping to get the jump on whatever enemy he faced? Or injured?

She looked at his message a last time and decided to ignore it, only typing in Where are you? before pocketing her phone and moving again. She ran the fingers of her left hand along the rough boards of the wall as she stepped steadily toward the main area of the barn, the space accessed by the door Trent had used on the opposite side of the building. At the inside corner of the room, she felt the edge of a manger butt up against the wall. Carefully, she followed the feed trough’s length, stopping at a spot where she could see a dim light filtering through one of the windows high overhead, just enough illumination that she could quietly find her way into the heart of the barn.

Hurry, hurry, hurry! Time’s running out. What if Trent is even now dying somewhere in the barn? God, where the hell are the police? Where’s Carter?

Her mouth arid, her muscles tense, her damned ankle throbbing, she crawled up onto the trough and then through the supports to a spot where she finally swung her body over the half wall separating the area for the animals from the interior of the structure. She landed lightly, felt another splintering shot of pain, then froze to get her bearings.

Move it! Keep going! Find Trent!

The horses were boxed in a line of stalls that ran down a long corridor. On the far end was the silo, on the opposite wall another wide door on rollers to allow equipment to be driven inside. In between, opposite from the stalls, were a series of small rooms that housed grain, tack, and barnyard equipment. She’d seen tools hung on the bare walls, and in the very center a ladder that led up to the hayloft and down lower, to the same level as the area where the cattle entered and fed, the space she’d just passed through.

So where was her husband?

She checked her phone.

Nothing.

Damn.

She couldn’t risk calling out, and didn’t want to take a chance at being shot, either by Trent or whoever else was within the building. Fortunately there was a bit of light filtering in through the windows. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out shapes and shadows caught in the feeble illumination. Because there were few interior walls, Cassie was able to see. A little.

And so can anyone else.

If she could just find Trent! Holding her breath, she listened hard and hoped she might hear the sound of a boot on the floorboards or a soft moan, but heard nothing but the sough of the wind and the shuffle of nervous hooves in straw.

She wished she had the nerve to turn on a light, the guts to whisper to Trent, but she knew instinctively to stay as quiet as she could and hope that the noise from the animals would cover her own footsteps and breathing.

Did she hear the distant wail of sirens?

Oh, please!

She prayed the police were on their way.

She moved a little closer to the equipment area.

In the edge of her peripheral vision, she thought she saw movement. Her heart leapt to her throat. She spun, her gun leveled. Don’t shoot. It could be Trent. Or some other innocent.

But the area was empty.

Maybe it was the dog? Or a barn cat?

Or perhaps nothing. Your effin’ imagination.

Yet, her senses were on alert, her ears cocked and listening, her eyes scanning the shadowy interior, her nerves strung tight as bowstrings as she inched along the hallway. Horses snorted as she passed. One, startled, whinnied and the air snapped with an electricity.

Damn it, Trent, where are you? Give me a sign.

And Hud? Where’s the damned dog?

Wouldn’t Hud be with Trent?

Crouching low, she inched along the wall, nearly called out Trent’s name in a whisper when she saw another movement from the corner of her eye.