Chapter Forty-Three
A gunshot rang through the thin air. Startled, Morgan stumbled. With her hands behind her back, she had no hands to catch her fall. She went down on one knee. Pain shot through her kneecap, but it was fleeting and adrenaline blotted it out.
Lance!
Had King shot him?
Branches crashed. Lance?
Or King . . .
Continue to run or circle back?
Morgan’s lungs burned. Her thighs burned. Everything burned.
The most running she’d done in the last six years was teaching Ava how to ride a bike. Trying to find any sort of stride on the uneven forest floor with her hands bound behind her back felt impossible. She didn’t want to leave Lance behind if he was wounded. But if he wasn’t wounded, he would catch up easily. She would be the one to slow him down.
She put her feet together and squatted until her chest pressed against her thighs. She slid her bound hands under her butt until they were behind her knees. Then she rocked onto her back and wiggled her feet through one at a time. When she stood, her hands were in front of her body.
A rock the size of a fist on the ground caught her eye. She grabbed it, pushed to her feet, and broke into a jog. Out of breath, she sucked the freezing air in through her mouth. If it was King on her trail, he’d hear her gasping for air from a half mile away. Lungs on fire, she ducked behind a tree.
The crashing came closer.
Once she stopped moving, Morgan shivered. She pressed against the tree trunk, using it as a shield and wind-block.
Please, let it be Lance.
Steeling herself, she peered around the tree and raised the rock over her head. A body flew toward her. Black pants. Black shirt. Legs churning. Strides sure and swift despite the hands bound behind him.
Lance.
Relief weakened her for a second. Then she pushed away from the tree and staggered toward him.
“Keep going.” He barely broke stride, his voice just a whisper.
She stumbled after him. She had no idea how far her initial sprint had taken her, except that it wasn’t far enough.
He slowed his pace and lined his shoulder up with hers. For him, the pace was a light jog.
“Where is he?” she whispered in three pants.
“I don’t know,” Lance said, his words barely audible over the sound of her footsteps. He frowned at her. “Let’s walk for a minute.”
She slowed to a walk. A stitch in her side doubled her over. She pressed her hands against it.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Fairly sure I broke his nose, but I doubt that will slow him down for long. We need to keep moving. You got through your handcuffs?”
“I fell.” She huffed and puffed, her lungs working like fireplace bellows to catch up on airflow. But the incoming air was so cold, she felt like she was inhaling needles. “Seemed like a good time.”
He nodded and veered to the left.
Morgan jerked her hands to the right. “But the road is that way.”
“It’s unlikely that a car will come by this late at night. The road is too open. He’ll catch us. There are houses on the other side of the lake.” He scanned the darkness. “Our best chance is to keep the lake on one side.”
Morgan’s gasps and heart rate slowed, but with the reduced activity, the cold hit her hard.
“Can you move faster now?” he asked.
She nodded and broke into a heavy, toe-dragging jog. She tripped. A thin branch cracked under her foot, the sound carrying through the quiet woods. She regained her balance, but the temperature and exhaustion were taking their toll. Her movements were clumsy.
She was running as fast as she could. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He could move a lot faster without her. She would slow him down. He was going to get killed because of her.
“You should run ahead and get help,” she said. “I won’t make it. It’s too cold, and I’m too out of shape.”
“I will not leave you. We are stronger together, remember?”
But tonight, she was the weak link in their partnership. Physically, she could not match Lance’s strength and conditioning.
She hadn’t even begun to process what the sheriff had done. Did this mean King had killed Crystal and the Hoolihans? What about Mary? Had the sheriff tried to kill Lance’s mother? Why?
Whatever it was must be related to Mary’s death and Vic’s disappearance. King had been the chief deputy in 1994. Only one thing linked the sheriff’s department to August 10, 1994: Lou Ford’s death.
A mental image of Eric’s bruised face appeared in her mind. My face hit the floor when the sheriff handcuffed me.
The sheriff had used excessive force when he’d arrested Eric. Had he been involved in Ford’s death? How? King hadn’t been the arresting officer. As chief deputy, had he initiated a cover-up?
Morgan tripped over a rock and stumbled to her knees. The pain brought her back to the present.
Lance took her fall as an opportunity to roll to his back and work his cuffed hands in front of his body the same way she had.
She got her foot under her body and stood, swaying from lack of oxygen.
They paused for a moment. Morgan caught her breath. Lance listened.
He put his lips to her ear. “I don’t hear him.”
“He’s out there.” Morgan felt the sheriff behind them, a shadowy presence, a threat that her body recognized even if her eyes and ears couldn’t discern his location.
“Stop thinking,” he whispered. “Just put one foot in front of the other.”
But they both knew that King wouldn’t let them go. He was out there. And he was coming after them.