“Have you seen her around the neighborhood in the past few days?”

Her face lit with alarm. “Why? Has something happened to her?”

“Olivia missed an appointment today. We hope it’s just a misunderstanding, but her mother is worried and asked us to look into it.”

Mrs. Brown clutched the edges of her sweater together. Shoeless, she propped one pink-socked foot against the opposite leg like a stork. “I think we saw her over the weekend.” She pursed her lips. “Yes. On Sunday. My husband and I were raking leaves. She was doing the same. I work part-time, and I have three boys who play travel soccer. During soccer season it feels like we are never home.” She checked her watch. “In fact, I have a pickup in about ten minutes. I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful.” She started to turn away.

“A white van was seen in front of your house over the past couple of weeks. Did it belong to one of your contractors?”

“No.” She frowned. “Our renovations were finished a month ago. No one has been working here. I really do have to go. I hope you find Ms. Cruz.”

Mrs. Brown went back inside, and Lance walked away from the house. He talked to the remaining neighbors on the street. None had seen Olivia for several days. Two had noticed the white van, but like Bob, they had ignored it. No one on the street had hired a contractor recently.

So why had a white van been parked across the street from Olivia’s house?

Lance walked back toward his Jeep. He pulled up short as a JBT News van turned the corner and stopped in front of Olivia’s house. A camera crew climbed out and began to set up on the sidewalk. A man in a suit applied powder to his face.

A reporter. Already?

Irritated, Lance made a beeline for his vehicle. He was in no mood.

“You’re Lance Kruger,” the suit said.

Lance took a deep breath and let it out. He stopped. “And you are?”

The man handed his face powder to one of his crew. His tanned skin and dark hair were too . . . perfect. A crewmember handed him a microphone that he, in turn, extended toward Lance. “Are you working the Olivia Cruz case?”

Lance crossed his arms. As far as he knew, Olivia’s disappearance wasn’t public knowledge yet, but the Scarlet Falls PD had a long-standing problem with information being leaked to the press. Morgan had called Stella on her cell phone. They hadn’t used the police dispatch. Had the call somehow gone out over the police scanner? “How do you know Ms. Cruz?”

The reporter met Lance’s gaze. He blinked, then lowered the mic and switched it off. “Look, I have a contact who says Olivia was reported missing. Is that true?”

Lance couldn’t decide if it would be beneficial to use the media this early in the investigation. He needed to discuss the situation with Morgan and Sharp.

“No comment.” Lance brushed past the reporter and strode to his Jeep.

“I’ll find out,” the reporter called after him. “I have other sources.”

Lance had no doubt that he did.

Chapter Eight

Olivia opened her eyes to blurry dimness. She squeezed them shut again. Confusion flooded her.

What happened? Where am I?

She lay curled on her side. The kidnapping rushed back to her in a kaleidoscope of images and sensations. Her eyes flew open. Blinking, she cleared her vision, but all she could see was a dark surface about a foot from her face. She reached out and touched it. Her fingertips brushed cold, rough stone.

She rolled to her back. A single dim light cast just enough brightness that she could see her surroundings. She lay on a floor of packed earth. Stone walls formed a ten-by-ten space. The low ceiling was constructed of heavy wooden beams. There were no windows. Empty wooden shelves covered the far wall. On the other side of the space, near the source of the tiny light, a set of narrow, steep stairs led upward.

A root cellar?

She was underground.

Horror raced through her. Adrenaline sharpened her senses and tasted coppery in her mouth. Her heartbeat surged, thudding like a drumbeat in her head.

On the bright side, her hands and feet were no longer bound, and the rope had been removed from around her neck. Her lungs tightened, as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around her torso. Her breathing became rapid and shallow.

Not enough air.

Lack of oxygen—and fear—made her almost giddy.

Breathe.

She had to think straight.

Panicking will not help.

Air stirred over her face. There must be some sort of ventilation. She should not run out of oxygen.

Her shortness of breath must be a product of her anxiety. But knowing this and controlling her fear were two completely different things. She counted, again hearing Lincoln’s words in her mind as she fought to regulate her breathing and the claustrophobia that threatened to lead her straight into a major anxiety attack. Even in her imagination, his deep, soothing voice calmed her. Her tongue stuck to the cotton-dry roof of her mouth, a likely side effect of whatever drug she’d been administered.

Several minutes passed as she focused on breath control. Once her light-headedness had passed, and her heart rate slowed, she became aware of pain throbbing in her face and her foot.

She assessed her overall physical condition. The air was chilly and damp. She was still dressed in her flannel pajama bottoms, sweatshirt, and thick socks. Her cotton throw was draped over her and tucked around her feet, but it wasn’t enough to ward off the dampness. A chill radiated from the stone wall, as if she were lying next to a block of ice.

She probed her cheek with one hand. A goose egg had formed over the bone, but she doubted it was broken. Her foot was a different matter. She tried to wiggle it, and pain surged. The entire front half of her foot was swollen and hot to the touch. In hindsight, kicking him while only wearing socks hadn’t been a good idea.

Even if she escaped, she wouldn’t be running away anytime soon. Maybe there was a vehicle she could steal. She rolled to her hands and knees, then stood and hobbled to the steps. Ignoring the pain, she crawled up the stairs. The wooden doors above were set on an angle in a frame of heavy timber, like bulkhead doors. Pressing her hands to the thick wood, she pushed. But there was no give, no looseness.

She felt the edges for hinges but found none. They must be on the outside. She pressed her shoulder to the doors, but nothing budged. She was not getting out that way. Turning around, she sat on the steps. Next to her face, the tiny light was a round disk attached to the wall about two inches in diameter and made of plastic. There were no wires, and it appeared to be battery operated. Not a good option for a weapon. She pressed the switch on the light, and it went out, leaving her in complete darkness.

No!

Panic surged inside her. She quickly pressed the light again. It brightened. Relief flooded her, leaving her light-headed once more.

Don’t do that again.

The air smelled organic, like earth and wet leaves. Straining her ears, she listened for any sounds that might give her a clue to her location. She heard a faint splash. She was near water.

Should she call out?

She wanted to, but fear dried up her throat. Swallowing, she mustered her courage, turned to the doors, and shouted, “Hello, is anyone out there?”

No one answered.

She faced her dungeon again. Two items she hadn’t noticed before caught her attention. In the far corner stood a chemical toilet, and a brown grocery bag sat in the shadows next to her blanket. She limped over to the bag and opened it. Two six-packs of water sat beneath two protein bars—enough to keep her alive for a few days if she rationed.