In Close (Bulletproof #3)(5)
Author: Brenda Novak

There had to be a reason. Hoping it might become apparent, Claire kept reading.

If she was sick, how did she recuperate so fast?

Exactly!

At 2:00 p.m. she brought a note to the office excusing her absence and signed herself in. The attendance lady didn’t keep the note and doesn’t remember who wrote it—mother or father—but she stands by her log. When asked if she could’ve gotten the date wrong, she insists it would be almost impossible. “If that’s wrong, all the dates before it would have to be wrong, as well as the dates after.”

Another highlighted part.

All the days are accounted for and run Monday through Friday, as they should.

Stunned, Claire sat staring at the yellow circle her flashlight created on the page. What did this mean? Why had the sheriff or his deputies even thought to check with the school? At sixteen, she could be considered a suspect. Everyone close to the missing person had to be ruled out. But Leanne? She hadn’t yet had the sledding accident that broke her back, but she’d only been thirteen. What could she have done to Alana?

The discomfort of the hard floor and the scrabbling of some rodent in the corner began to bother Claire. It was too difficult to read for an extended period sitting in such an unfriendly spot, holding a heavy flashlight and trying to ignore the pack rats.

It was time to take the files home, where she could scour every interview, every note, at her leisure. No doubt David had been trying to find her mother for her. He was that kind of man. He probably hadn’t told her in case he didn’t come any closer than anyone else. He wouldn’t want to raise her hopes, only to see them dashed. Probably a smart move. He certainly seemed to have run into more questions than answers. But she loved him for making the attempt.

Relieved to be going, she closed the files. But just as she slid them into the accordion folder, a noise from below brought her head up.

What was that?

Movement? If so, whoever or whatever made that noise was definitely bigger than a rat.

She’d thought she heard footsteps when she first arrived—and there’d been no one here.

Irritated that she kept spooking herself, she climbed down the ladder. She’d just set foot on the stairs heading to the ground floor when a draft of cool air, smelling distinctly of smoke from the fireworks, swept up to meet her.

Fresh air. From outside…

“Hello?” she called.

No answer. No corresponding rustle, either.

She angled her flashlight in every direction to illuminate the dark recesses below, but the beam would only reach so far. “Anybody there?”

Silence.

Her mind conjured up the gruesome images that sometimes came to her in nightmares, images of her mother being tortured and strangled by some crazed psychopath. Most people were killed by someone in their circle of family and friends. But not all. Murders committed by strangers were among the most difficult to solve.

Was that why no one could figure out what had happened? Was her mother’s killer lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to move closer?

Half expecting the truth she’d been chasing for so long to become apparent in the most frightening way, she stood as if her feet were encased in concrete. The possibility of a violent ending didn’t escape her.

But there were no footsteps, no madman rushing toward her, no more movement.

Had she imagined the change in temperature? The noise? In such an old structure, even a slight wind caused creaks and groans.

She wasn’t convinced it was the wind, but she didn’t see how staying on the landing, holding her breath, was going to help. She needed to get out.

Tightening her grip on the files, she crept down the stairs, using her flashlight to scout for trouble—until she reached the living room. Then she aimed the beam straight ahead and ran for the door. But just as she reached it, she twisted around to look behind her.

And that was when she saw it.

A man’s booted foot.

Someone was crouching behind her mother’s old piano.

The scream curdled Isaac Morgan’s blood. He’d seen headlights pass by his place, knew it was probably Claire. It’d been a while since she’d come to her mother’s studio. He had a feeling his proximity served as a deterrent, especially since David’s death. But even the chance of coming face-to-face with him in such a private setting didn’t scare her away entirely.

He usually turned a blind eye to her visits and pretended not to notice. He understood what she’d been through, why she couldn’t let go, and felt she deserved privacy to deal with her demons.

Lord knew he preferred privacy to deal with his.

It was the second set of headlights, appearing only a few minutes later, that had drawn him out of the house. He doubted she’d bring anyone up here; she tried too hard to act as if she was fine, as if the past didn’t bother her, but it did. The amount of weight she’d lost was alarming.

Determined to investigate, he’d walked over. It was the Fourth of July, after all. The last thing he needed was a group of teenagers—teenagers who were even half as reckless as he’d been—coming up here and setting off fireworks. As dry as it’d been this summer, they could start a forest fire that would take every single cabin. But all he’d found was Claire’s Camaro. He’d been skirting the property and using his flashlight to comb through the trees in search of the second car when that scream sliced through him.

Claire!

Forgetting everything except getting to the cabin, he took off at a full run, moving much faster than he should have amid so many rocks, logs, gopher holes, pinecones and trees. With his flashlight bouncing every time his foot landed on the forest floor, the ground blurred beneath him. But he didn’t dare slow down—and that was why he never saw the tree branch that knocked him on his back.

The sudden impact left him breathless. Blinking up at the sky, he struggled to fill his lungs.

By the time he recovered and picked up his flashlight, which had gone flying, an engine roared to life on the far side of the property.

The other car. It’d gone beyond the cabin and circled behind, to an area he hadn’t yet reached.

Isaac almost changed direction. He hated that someone might’ve hurt Claire and would get away with it if he didn’t at least see the car. But if Claire was still alive and needed help, every second could matter.

The driver was tearing out of the forest as fast as possible, regardless of the damage such rough terrain might cause his vehicle. Isaac spotted a flash of taillights through the trees and wished he could see more, but he wasn’t in the best condition to follow, even if whoever was behind the wheel had been moving more slowly. Blood soaked his shirt, causing the fabric to stick to him. That branch hadn’t only knocked him down, it’d punched a hole in his chest.