What if the dog was tracking her?

“No,” she said, but the thought took hold.

What if the hound was owned by the psycho who had abducted her?

What if, even now, she, not some woodland creature, was the hunter’s ultimate prey?

Impossible! She’d crossed the river. She’d gotten herself some distance from that horrible cabin with its dank cellar. And all that time she’d spent in the water . . . it had to make it difficult to track her. But still . . .

She swallowed hard. Told herself she was hallucinating. She was safe. Far away from the whack job with his stupid fascination about birthdays.

Right?

But the dog continued to howl, a horrid, plaintive sound that echoed through this shady forest of hickory and pine. Panic skittered down her spine.

How in the world would she, limping as she was, outrun a dog?

It’s not chasing you. Don’t freak out. Just keep moving. Head to the highway. Find a motorist. Get to safety.

And, for God’s sake, Zoe, get there fast!

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 24

In her practice, Brianna never stacked her clients back-to-back. Like most therapists, she gave herself at least fifteen minutes of breathing room between fifty-minute counseling sessions. She also worked to keep herself emotionally detached; empathetic, yes, but distant enough to remain objective and help each person find his or her path to emotional well-being. In the times she started to slip and become too involved, experiencing transference, she had worked through the issues with her own therapist. Generally, she was able to maintain her own mental equilibrium.

Unfortunately, her usual techniques were not helping her maintain objectivity with her last client of the day. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe her worries over Chloe and Zoe were wearing away her concentration. Whatever the reason, today she found it impossible to remain emotionally detached from this widower who was heartsick at the loss of his wife, a husband who was having trouble moving on. He didn’t break down, wouldn’t allow himself to shed a tear, but his chin wobbled and he twisted his gnarled hands around a handkerchief so hard the thin square of cloth had become a tightly wound paisley snake.

After he left, she walked outside to her garden and felt the warmth of the morning sun warm her back. Though it was just a little past ten, she didn’t have another client scheduled for the rest of the day, so she could spend more time helping Selma find her daughters.

If they’re still alive.

“Don’t think that way,” she said, though she knew the odds of recovering the girls alive were diminishing with each passing hour. Trying to stay positive, she watched a sparrow flutter in the branches of the tree. St. Ives had also noticed the bird and made a nervous little groan of frustration at not being able to reach it.