He barked and took off, running to the edge of the property, Justin on his heels. She was close behind, staying just far enough back to give them space to do their work.
They pushed through the thick foliage that surrounded the property. Gretchen followed, twigs catching at her short dark hair and scratching her face.
When Justin stopped short, she nearly slammed into his back, her hands coming up automatically, grabbing his shoulders to catch her balance.
“What—” she began.
“Quinn found the bodyguard,” Justin said, crouching and giving her a clear view of what lay in the bushes in front of him. A man sprawled on the ground. She pulled her Maglite and turned it on, wincing as she saw blood trickling from the back of his head.
“Gunshot wound?” she asked, crouching beside Justin as he checked for a pulse.
“Yes. Just one to the head.”
“Pulse?”
“No.”
She eyed the fallen man as Justin radioed for backup and medics. The bodyguard had been dragged into the shrubs. She could see the trail his body had made—empty of leaves, dirt scraped up by his shoes. His jacket was hiked up, and his firearm was visible. Still holstered.
“He didn’t have time to pull his weapon,” she commented as Justin straightened.
“Boyd doesn’t give people time. He doesn’t play by rules. He doesn’t care who he hurts. Stay here until backup arrives. I’m going inside.” He called for Quinn and took off, racing back the way they’d come as if he really thought she’d stay where she was.
But he wasn’t the only captain on the team.
And he wasn’t thinking clearly.
That was an easy way to get killed.
Especially when someone like Boyd Sullivan was around.
She ran after him, the faint sounds of sirens drifting on the velvet night air as she sprinted across the yard, up the porch stairs and into the dark house.
Quinn didn’t sense danger.
Justin was as certain of that as he was of the fact that the house was empty. He could feel it—the silence, thick and unnatural. Up until Portia had come to live with him, Justin had lived by himself. He’d been used to returning to a house that was empty and quiet. Since his daughter had arrived, things had been different, better in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He’d always been a loner. He’d never thought he needed what so many of his friends had—a wife, children, family.
He’d known, of course, that if anything happened to Melanie, Portia would live with him. They’d discussed that after the death of Melanie’s mother. That had been six or seven years ago, and Justin had been quick to agree that he would step in if Portia needed him. He and Melanie had been high school sweethearts. They hadn’t married, but he’d still cared about her. And he’d certainly wanted to be there for her and Portia. He’d obviously also wanted to be the custodial parent if something were to happen to Melanie. He just hadn’t expected it to happen. Melanie had been young and fit, health-minded and cautious. He hadn’t expected her to suddenly be gone. Portia hadn’t, either. Her mother’s death had been a shock. Being forced to move from Michigan to Texas had meant giving up everything she knew and loved.
For the first few months, they’d tiptoed around each other. Mostly silent. Uncertain. He’d been a little too eager to build a bridge between them. Portia had been resistant. Recently, though, they’d begun to relax around each other, and he’d begun to enjoy the music drifting from her room, the quick tap of her fingers on the laptop keyboard while he made dinner.
He couldn’t remember when she’d begun sitting at the kitchen table while he cooked, but he knew he enjoyed having her there. Even when he didn’t know what questions to ask or how to ask the important ones, it was nice to have a house that felt like a home. It was nice to return from work to the very real and unmistakable feeling of not being alone.
Now the house was empty, and the terror he felt at the thought of his daughter being with the Red Rose Killer stole every thought from his head. Except one: finding her.
“Portia!” he called, knowing she wouldn’t answer.
Boyd had her phone. He had her.
Justin was surprised that his voice wasn’t shaking, surprised that his legs were carrying him upstairs.
Quinn loped ahead of him, following a scent trail into a narrow hall that opened into three bedrooms and a bathroom. The Malinois beelined to Portia’s door, scratching at it with his paw.
It opened silently, swinging inward.
“Portia?” Justin repeated, stepping inside.
The room was empty.
Just like he’d expected.
Tidy. Portia liked her things neat and organized. Just like Justin. She liked an uncluttered environment. Also, like Justin. Funny how those traits had carried genetically. Melanie had been creative and disorganized, her house filled with knickknacks and art projects. The few times Justin had been there, he’d had the urge to declutter and organize.
Had Portia felt that way?
Had her bedroom at her mom’s house been as neat and tidy as this one? He hadn’t asked her. The topic had felt too fraught with emotion—a minefield he wasn’t sure either of them was ready to walk through.
“I’m sorry, Justin,” Gretchen said, stepping into the room behind him.
“This is my fault. I should have sent her somewhere safe.”
“Nowhere would be safe. Not if Boyd wanted to get his hands on her. You know that.”
He did, but that didn’t make it easier to stomach.
“And the only person at fault here is Boyd,” she continued, turning a slow circle, taking in all the details of the room. “There’s no sign of a struggle.”
“I don’t think she’d have tried to fight someone who had a gun,” he said, trying not to imagine the terror Portia must have felt, the fear that must have been in her eyes. She might be organized and meticulous like Justin, but she felt things deeply like her mother. She was a writer. Of journals. Of blogs. All the things she didn’t say, she poured into written words and sentences and paragraphs. He didn’t have to be father of the year to know that about his daughter.
“It looks like she was on her computer.” Gretchen walked to the bed, moving past Justin and Quinn. He let her lead the way, because his judgment was clouded by fear. He was a good enough officer to know that, and she was a good enough one to take control of the scene.
He’d noticed the laptop, and now he noticed a note taped to it as he approached the bed. He could read it easily, the words printed in bold red ink: Now the formerly anonymous blogger of CAFB will really have something to write about.
“I need to find her.” He called for Quinn, planning to run outside. If Quinn could find a scent trail, they might be able to follow it to Boyd’s location.
“You need to slow down, Justin.”
“That’s an easy thing to say when it’s not your daughter in the hands of a serial killer,” he responded, regretting it immediately. He knew Gretchen cared deeply about the work she did and about the people she worked for. She took the job as seriously as he did, and she was as eager as he was to find and stop Boyd.
“Maybe.