“This is Sheriff Jeff Barnes. I need every officer in Williamson County to report for duty STAT. We have a missing person.” He pauses, the next words hard for him to say and harder for me to hear. “Zoey Walker is missing, foul play is suspected. I repeat, All Points Bulletin for Zoey Walker. We need to find her, boys. Someone took one of our own. Over.”

He releases the button, and there’s a moment of static before someone replies, “This is Smith. On it, Sheriff.”

Another voice says, “Parker here. We’ll find her, sir.”

He blinks, though I don’t think a man like him cries—at least not in the middle of an investigation—and pushes the button again, “Kenny?”

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“I need you to go by Yvette Horne’s house. She’s our number-one suspect and you’re closest. Be careful, son. Over.”

“Yes, sir.”

Silence descends for a moment as the chill of the room seeps into my bones. Zoey is really missing.

“Barnes?”

It’s only one word, but he hears everything I have tied up in it. . . my plea for help, my promise to do whatever it takes to get Zoey back, and most of all, my prayers that she is unharmed.

“I know, kid. Come upstairs and let me show you how a real investigation is done.”

Chapter 25

Zoey

A disgusting smell assails my nostrils, and that’s saying something because I have smelled some rank stuff before. Decomposition has its own aroma, unlike no other. Thankfully, what I smell now isn’t that, but rather . . . ammonia.

Stale and sharp . . . urine.

My nose crinkles, and I try breathing through my mouth instead, an old trick Grandpa taught me when I first started working by his side. My eyes flutter as I try to blink, but it’s just as dark as before when I manage to force them open. I’m lying down and can feel that I’m enclosed.

My first thought is that I’ve been buried alive, and I panic, my heart beating out of my chest as I thrash and flail, screaming in terror. My foot kicks something solid and metal, and I cry out, pulling my knee to my chest sharply.

“Ow!” It hurts like a bitch, tears instantly sprouting, but it does stop my panic attack enough that my surroundings start to take shape. Mostly, the hum of road noise comes to me.

I’m in . . . a trunk?

What happened?

I try to remember. There was court . . . and Holly’s . . . and the morgue. I was mopping. Is that why I’m wet?

Or is the urine my own?

No, not mine because now that I’m thinking about it, I could really pee, but this doesn’t seem to be the time nor place.

Think, Zoey. Mopping and then what? How did I go from the morgue to a trunk?