“There’s been an accident, about five miles from here. Car went into a ditch. The Enterprise rental agreement shows the name Garrett Wilson and this address.”

“Yes! Yes! He was driving a rental from Rhode Island. Is he hurt? Is he in the hospital? Which hospital? Can you take me? I’ll get a jacket!” I grab a raincoat from the front closet.

Officer Blaine holds up his hand. “Ms. Cooke, there was nobody in the car. No victims at the scene. Mr. Wilson is not here?”

“Here? No, he’s not here! I’ve been waiting for him!” I take a breath. “Hold on. The car was empty?”

“Yes, ma’am. We found a cell phone under the back seat.”

“Well, he must still be out there! Get helicopters! Get bloodhounds! Start looking!”

“Not much we can do until this rain lets up, ma’am. We’ve got alerts out to all the hospitals. And patrols are searching the roads in the vicinity.”

That’s it. I’m done talking. I push past the cop and head for the Subaru. The mud sucks me in with every step. “I’m joining the search.”

“Ms. Cooke!” Officer Blaine shouts at me. I stop and turn around. “We can’t have amateurs on the road during a storm like this. Stay here. We need to know where to find you when we locate him.”

I feel all the strength drain out of me. I nod and watch him get back into his car. He does a quick K-turn and drives off.

I turn to the house, and a figure appears. I stop in my tracks, then back away.

The figure takes a few steps forward until he’s hit by the porch light.

Garrett!

CHAPTER
42

I can’t believe I almost lost him.

While I pull off Garrett’s wet clothes, wrap him in warm blankets, and settle him on the sofa with a steaming mug of tea, he tells me about his meeting with DeMarco, about being knocked off the road by Romero’s thugs, about the warning shot two feet from his head, and about his five-mile trek through the woods.

“We need to call the police,” I tell him. “You could have died back there!”

“The official story, Brea,” Garrett says, “is that I lost control of the car on the icy road. That’s what we’ll tell the police.”

“What about the dent in your rear bumper where they hit you?”

“Dent? Hell, the whole back end got shredded when I went into the ditch. It’s just cheap plastic. People can’t tell one dent from another unless they call in the FBI. Which they won’t. It’s Litchfield. The insurance company will declare the car a total loss and it’ll get junked for parts.”