If it was him, he had looked directly at her and hadn’t reacted at all. Did the mother of his victim mean so little to him that he couldn’t be bothered to recognize her?

Raw emotions coursed through Lauren like a tide of acid. Anger, fear, outrage, hate, disbelief, astonishment—all of it flooded through her like the swirling wave of a tsunami.

The van was turning again. Lauren wanted to blast past the two cars in front of her so she couldn’t lose him.

Even as the thought formed in her mind, a burgundy sedan came alongside her. She shot the driver a dirty look and her head swam.

The Hispanic man she had crashed her shopping cart into at the store. He was chasing her down for ramming into him in the pasta aisle. This had to be a dream, some crazy, absurd bad dream.

He gave her a hard glare, stabbing a forefinger in the direction of the curb. For the first time the flashing light on the dashboard registered.

Oh my God. He’s a cop.

A cop was pulling her over while she was trying to chase down the man who had abducted her daughter. If that was true, this was no dream but a nightmare.

She looked ahead to catch a last glimpse of the brown van as it turned right and disappeared down the street, wishing she could somehow reach out with a giant arm and pick it up like a toy. At the same time, the sane part of her brain moved her hand to the turn signal, and she pulled her car to the curb.

The burgundy sedan pulled in behind her.

Lauren sat there, watching in her rearview mirror as the driver got out, at the same time struggling with the notion that Roland Ballencoa had escaped her.

Was he alone? Did he have Leslie here? Was he hunting for other victims?

Or was the guy in the van just a local plumber picking up dinner for his wife and kids?

Which would mean she was crazy.

“I’m Detective Mendez with the sheriff’s office,” the cop said, holding his ID up to her open window. “Can I see your license and registration, please?”

She fumbled with her wallet, hands shaking as she pulled out her driver’s license and handed it to him. The registration was in the glove compartment. She couldn’t remember what it looked like.

“I’m going to ask you to step out of the car, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry,” Lauren said, getting out. “I’m really not a bad driver—with a car or a shopping cart.”

Detective Mendez was not amused. He had that flat, hard cop look she had come to know too well, like a closed steel door with no window.

“Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

“No.” Not yet, though a good stiff vodka would have been welcome.