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Back The Runaway
Chapters (80)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY NICK PETRIE
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  79. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  80. What’s next onyour reading list?

Peter scratched his chin. “How about the town she was from, Coldwater, Montana? The county would have birth records, right? Or we could look up death records, find her mom that way. We know she died a year or so ago.”

June looked at him. “Peter, I can’t find any Montana town by that name.”

“Did she make it up?” Lewis asked.

“I don’t think she was lying,” June said. “More likely Coldwater used to be a town, probably unincorporated. Sometimes if those communities lose enough population, they kind of fall off the map.”

Just like Helene, Peter thought. “What about a missing persons search?”

“Tried that, too. There are a lot of missing women online, some on social media, some even with their own websites made by their families or friends who’re still looking for them. There are a few named Helene, but none of them line up with what we know about her. Plus she’s over eighteen, so legally, she’s not even missing. She’s just gone. Like she fell through a crack in the world.”

“Damn.” Lewis put his hands on his hips. “You sayin’ we got nothing? Not even a scrap to follow?”

“Hey.” Peter stood up abruptly. “Where are my pants? The ones I was wearing earlier?”

June gave him a look. “I threw them out. They were shredded, even by your minimal standards.”

“Where’d you put them?”

“The trash can in the garage.”

Feeling every ache, Peter limped barefoot through the breezeway and turned on the light. The waste bin stood directly inside the garage door. He opened the lid. His pants were right on top, still damp.

In the left front pocket, he found a slender ring of torn fabric, embroidered with bright blue thread.

55

HELENE

They kept to the back roads, driving slow, headlights showing narrow pavement. With Helene sitting between them, Roy and Frank didn’t talk.

Her throat ached from when he had choked her, and it hurt to swallow. She was exhausted from the horrors of the day, but she didn’t want to sleep. Each time her eyes closed, she watched Trooper Falk—Lisa, she’d told Helene to call her Lisa—slide across to the passenger seat, saying, “I’m getting you out of here. Are you ready?”

Helene had seen the shadow coming from the other direction. She knew who it was. She knew what he’d do. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came.

Lisa pushed open the door, but the shadow was right there, lit from behind by the other police car’s headlamps. Helene heard two popping sounds and Lisa fell. Helene knew she was dead. The shadow turned its head and Roy’s skull mask looked at her through the window. He rolled the mask up to his nose and smiled at her. Not the warm smile or the cold one, but something different. Something new.