Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
The sounds of her footsteps moved toward the door, and it slammed shut behind her. She better keep her nosy ass inside.
A black truck emerged on the horizon. Newer model. Expensive.
He concealed the gun in his boot and straightened his spine.
As the vehicle advanced, he saw only one occupant. A male driver. Texas tags on the truck. Not a local, though. The man was wearing a white collared shirt and black tie. No one around here owned a suit or drove a fancy truck.
The pistol sat heavily against his calf. If Rylee hadn’t taken his shirt, he would’ve concealed the weapon in his waistband for easier access.
As the vehicle stopped a few yards away, Tomas leaned against the Jeep, arms folded across his clawed-up chest, and waited like a bored, rural redneck with nothing but time on his hands.
A mid-thirties man stepped out and directed his mirrored aviator sunglasses at him. Lean cheeks, clean-shaved jaw, aristocratically straight nose, ink-black hair worn high and tight—all of it lent him the air of official business.
He reeked of law enforcement. Probably a small-town detective, dressing for the job he wanted rather than the dead-end job he was stuck with.
Only one of two reasons would interest him enough to drive all the way out here. Paul Kissinger or Rylee Sutton. Both missing.
Except Rylee took a sabbatical from work and claimed she told no one she was coming here. The jury was still out on whether she was lying.
“Mr. Dine?” The man strode forward, flashing his shiny, self-important badge. “I’m Detective Hodge.”
Tomas spat a wad of phlegm in the sand and glared.
“You’re the owner of this property?” The detective paused a few feet away and peered at him over his lowered sunglasses. “Are you Tomas Dine?”
“Yep.”
“I’m following up on a missing-persons report. Got a call that Rylee Sutton was spotted at your residence.”
Spotted by whom? Paul Kissinger? The bastard must’ve notified someone that the tracker on her truck stopped here. That, or someone else was tracking her truck.
“If she was seen here,” he drawled, playing the part of a moronic cowboy, “then she ain’t missing, is she?”
Any moment, she was going to burst out the front door and run off her mouth about being beaten and held captive. Then he would have to shoot the detective and bury another body.
But he wasn’t a cop killer. There had to be another way.
“I’m looking for Rylee Sutton.” Detective Hodge cocked his head. “Age forty-one. Brown hair. Gray eyes. Tiny little thing. Absolutely gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous? Is that in the official description, detective?”
“Well, it’s the truth.” The detective stood taller. “Have you seen her?”
The front door opened, and here she came. His hand twitched, the pistol burning in his boot.
“Dean?” Her footsteps approached. “What are you doing here?”
Oh, great. She fucking knew the guy. Probably worked with him. Another admirer?
He clenched his jaw.
She walked past Tomas, circling far out of his reach as if she weren’t limping from the ramming of his cock. That was when he saw her duffel bag clutched tightly in her fist.
So she’d grabbed her shit and intended to leave with this douchebag. Clever girl.
Unless Detective Dean Hodge was compromised.
Tomas didn’t know if she was in danger, but if she was, everyone was a suspect.
Tension flared beneath his skin, but he kept his expression relaxed and voice calm. “Who reported her missing?”
“Missing?” She turned to him, mouth open in shock, and looked back to the detective. “I’m not missing, Dean. Who said I was?”
Now would’ve been the time for her to blurt the details of her captivity, but she didn’t utter a word of it. Even stranger, she’d pulled on a jacket while in the house, hiding the abuse inflicted upon her body.
“Your ex-husband.” Dean gave her a once-over, lingering on her mouth. What the fuck? “He said you disappeared four days ago.”
“Try ten years ago. That’s the beauty of divorce.” She cocked her hip. “He doesn’t get to know where I am or what I’m doing.” She narrowed her eyes. “How did you find me?”
“We put out an alert two days ago. Got an anonymous call that you were spotted here.”
Suspicion snaked through Tomas’ veins. Either Dean was lying or someone was using him to get to Rylee, whether to deliver a message to her, pull her out of here, or something else entirely.
Everything about this felt off.
Her empty expression revealed nothing. Frozen, she stared at Dean’s vehicle. What was she thinking? Escape, most likely.
“Rylee? Is everything okay?” Dean stepped toward her and touched her arm. “How do you know this man? Where’s your truck?”
She could tell him everything, just lay out all the gory details right now. The detective would try to arrest him, and he would be forced to shoot or flee in the Jeep. He really didn’t want to kill an innocent guy. But what if Dean knew more than he was letting on?