9

PLEASE LET THIS WORK.

Ty glanced at Brette through the rearview mirror, way too happy about the way she offered him a tentative smile at his bold idea to search the school.

He didn’t know what he’d done over the past twelve hours to make her want to be in the same vehicle as him.

And she listened with a sort of eagerness in her eyes as he revealed his hunch about the kids at the school. As if she believed him.

Which meant he couldn’t let her down—couldn’t let any of them down, really—but especially Brette, who looked at him the way she had eighteen months ago . . . like he might be the kind of man she’d been looking for her entire life.

“The more I hope, the harder it will be when that hope dies.”

Please, God, help us find Creed today. The words bubbled up inside him, and he couldn’t cap them, just let them seep through to him and light him on fire with hope. Only you know where they are. Please keep them alive until we can find them.

Ahead of them, Pete kept driving past the school, as did Jonas, but Ty tapped the brakes and turned at the Duck Lake school entrance.

Or what remained of it. The broken debris of the sign littered the ground as if a giant foot had come down hard, turning what had been a sculptured stone sign to rubble. The twister had torn through the parking lot, upending light poles that now lay toppled like matchsticks across furrowed pavement and on the sunken remains of the roof.

The destruction indicated the path of the twister, from the destroyed classrooms on the northwest side, through the middle section, and out the following southeastern corner. Nothing of structural significance remained of the elementary area; it looked as if God had picked it up in two massive hands and torn it asunder. Adding insult to injury, the roof from the high school section pancaked the entire mess.

The sun blinked off shattered glass in the yard. Cars were strewn against the far side of the building as if a broom had swept them carelessly aside.

Ty pulled up slowly, not wanting to pop his tires on the debris. Silence clung to the occupants.

As they got out of the SUV, Ty could barely make out anything but the chaos of rubble. Classroom desks lay twisted; he recognized a broken round lavatory sink atop a pile of bricks. A basketball had rolled out past the muddle, as if trying to escape.

A lone football helmet was embedded in the mud of the front yard.

Brette picked up a pink backpack. “I hope this was in the lost and found.”

Ty stepped on a tattered, grimy US map.

Chet just stood by the Suburban, his eyes wide.

Ty glanced at him. “You okay?”

“I heard it go over us and thought, wow, that’s a doozy. But I had no idea.” He pressed his hand on the hood.

“Why don’t you get Pete on the walkie, tell him that we’re going to stick around here and see if we can find any clues.”

Chet nodded and slid back into his seat.

Ty walked over to Brette. Touched her shoulder.

She turned, almost jumping. “We stopped by the school right after it happened, but we were so consumed with getting home . . . we should have looked harder.” She lifted her camera and took a picture of the backpack, then turned and grabbed more shots.

Then she unhooked the camera from around her neck. “Do you think one of these cars might be Creed’s? Let’s find it.”

She started for the pileup, and Ty followed her. He counted maybe five cars in total, covered in mud, the front lights ripped out, roofs sagged in, and the entire lot of them wadded up like paper and jammed together.

“He has an orange Subaru, according to Jenny. And we’re looking for a red Impala—Addie’s car.”

She pointed at an orange, crushed station wagon on the top of the heap, and he nodded. But when she headed for it, he grabbed her back. “The cars could shift on us.”

He left her there before she could argue and scrambled onto the hood of a white Jeep. Oddly, his gaze fell on a sticker of a paw in the front windshield. He kept climbing, balancing on the remains of a red pickup and crawling along the bed to the Subaru. It had landed upside down, and he braced himself just for a moment before peering inside.

Empty.

His lungs released his relief. “He’s not here.”

Brette edged up to the pile. “Good, now get down.”

“In a minute.” Because he’d seen something—there, wedged in the gap under the passenger seat, a small, tie-string athletic bag. He leaned in, balancing himself on the shattered window—

The car creaked, shifting its weight toward him.

“Ty!”

His fingers brushed the fabric.

The car rocked.

“Get out of there!”

He snagged the bag and backed out. But not before the car listed hard toward him and began to roll.

He took two steps and leaped from the bed of the truck just as the car careened down the side of the pile and crashed behind him.

Bending over to grab his knees, he let his heart find his chest.

“Are you crazy? You could have gotten killed!” Brette grabbed his arm, bent down to meet his gaze, her eyes big. “What did you find?”

He opened the bag. “Shoes.” He pulled them out. A fairly new pair of orange New Balance running shoes. “The kind a cross-country runner might wear to practice.”

“And take off after practice before returning to the school,” she said. “This feels like good confirmation to a hunch.”

“But it’s not proof. Maybe he wore a different pair that day.”

“Help! Help me!” The voice rose from beyond the debris, behind or perhaps inside the building.

Ty glanced at Brette, his heart banging hard against his ribs.

No—it couldn’t be that easy.

He scrambled toward the entrance. “Hello? Where are you?”

“I’m in the school!”

The voice seemed to be coming from the center of the U, past the maw of the main double doors. Ty headed inside the building and reached out almost on instinct for Brette’s hand.

She took it and held on.

Mud and debris clogged the main hallway—twisted metal, wood, flooring, bricks, papers, an announcement board torn from the wall. A display case of trophies had toppled, and glass littered the hallway.

“Careful,” he said and tightened his hold on her hand. They crunched through the carnage. “Hello?”

“Back here!”

They climbed around a tumble of desks in the hallway. “We’re coming!” Brette yelled, so much life in her voice it made him want to haul her up in an embrace.

In fact, he did as she nearly fell through the linked legs of the desks. So much easier to just lift her over the mass.

She weighed nearly nothing now—and he knew that because he’d picked her up before, when she’d needed her appendix out. Now, she grabbed on to his arms just for a moment as he put her down, as if needing balance.

He held her back. “You okay?”

Her face was flushed, her beautiful eyes big. “Yeah.”

“Over here!”

She took off, searching for the voice, Ty on her tail as they ran up a hallway, over papers and mud and lunch trays and even a smashed globe.

They rounded the corner and found a man standing near a pile of debris that leaned against a metal doorway. Inside the thin slip of safety glass, the room was dark. A big man with an athletic build, he wore his brown hair short, capped with a Twins hat perched backward on his head. He looked at them with such wide-eyed desperation that Ty fought the instinct to take Brette and put her behind him.

“Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, his face contorting before he drew in a breath. “I can’t find my wife. I think the school locker room is behind these doors, but I can’t wedge them open.”

Ty just stared at him. “What?”

“My wife April is missing. I was out of town, but . . . her apartment building is destroyed, and I thought maybe she would’ve come to the school.”

He pushed again on the door, but it didn’t move, and Ty ran his flashlight into the dark crevice. “There’s a beam down on the other side. We’ll never get it open from here.”

The news seemed to undo the man, and Ty guessed his adrenaline might be running low because his hands trembled, and when he stepped away, he tripped.

Ty grabbed his arm. “Steady there, pal. Let’s just take a minute. Maybe get you a drink of water.”

But to his horror, the man collapsed, right there, onto the pile, his head in his hands. “I tried to get here . . . I tried, but . . . and now she’s just gone.”

Ty knelt in front of him. “Who are you, and who is your wife?”

He ran his palm across his cheek. “April Maguire. She’s the new science teacher and cross-country coach.”

Ty couldn’t move. “Cross-country coach?”

“She moved here just a week ago to get settled in. I was out of town when I heard about the tornado. I got here as soon as I could, and I went to our apartment, but . . . it’s gone. It’s just gone. And she’s not answering her cell phone. I thought maybe she’d be here, but . . .” He looked like he might unravel again, and even Brette must have sensed it because she crouched next to him.

“We’ll find her. When’s the last time you heard from her?” Her voice was gentle, as if she might be talking to a child.

“We texted before the storm. She was going to work out with the team. She mentioned a park they were running at . . .” He looked away, his eyes thick with moisture.

“He could go into shock,” Ty said to Brette. “Let’s get him to the Red Cross area. They might have heard from his wife.” He turned to the man. “What’s your name?”

He swallowed, his lips barely moving. “Spenser.”

“Let’s see what we can find out about April,” Ty said. “It’s possible she simply lost her phone. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” But he glanced at Brette, who’d come around beside him, looped her arm under Spenser’s. Ty did the same, and they hoisted Spenser to his feet. He seemed almost disoriented as they led him through the rubble back to the car.

Chet opened the door for them and Ty settled Spenser into the backseat. Chet climbed in beside him, introducing himself and talking to him in low tones.

Brette pitched her voice low. “Do you think April was with the team?”

“He mentioned a park. Maybe they met there, took shelter, and got trapped.” He reached out for the driver’s door, but stilled when her hand landed on his arm.

The softness in her eyes eased the wounds raked up by her fleeing from him last night. “Good hunching.”

“Is that a word?”

“I’m a journalist. I get to make words up.” Then she winked and let go, running around to the passenger side.

Huh.

So this was the substance, the taste of hope. Brette almost didn’t recognize it, this sweet, warm welling in the center of her chest, that anticipation of a longing about to be answered.

She could get drunk on it, the way it seeped into her bones, made her yearn for more.

Or maybe that was what being around Ty did to her. Made her loosen her grip on despair, shattered the darkness so light could crack through.

“What park did April go to?” Ty was asking Spenser, who stared out the window almost hollowly as they motored into Duck Lake. The town had accomplished little in the way of cleanup over the past two days. She spotted the bowling alley, the roofless houses, and then Ty turned on some unnamed street and she made out a huddle of Red Cross tents spanned across the dirt parking lot of the fire department. Four tents in total, imprinted with a red cross on the white roof. Red Cross vehicles—a van with the words “Disaster Relief” written on the side, an ambulance, an RV, and a Hummer—jammed the parking lot. A school bus had just pulled up, letting off adults wearing T-shirts—Minnetonka Baptist Church—and Brette guessed them to be bussed-in volunteers. They headed toward one of the tents. The flaps of another tent opened, and a worker dressed in a red vest came out carrying a crate of water bottles.

Ty pulled up to the curb. “I’m hoping that’s Pete’s Hummer.”

Brette got out as Ty opened Spenser’s door. She ran toward the woman carrying the water bottles. “Can I get one of these?”

Brette returned in a moment as Ty brought Spenser around, set him down on the curb. She crouched before Spenser and handed him the bottle.

Spenser guzzled it down.

“Easy there, champ,” Ty said and eased the bottle away from his mouth. “Let’s see if we can find a medical center.”

Brette pointed toward yet another tent, this one with the flaps propped open. “I see some cots and blankets in there.”

“Perfect.” He helped Spenser to his feet, but Spenser shook away, clearly coming back to himself. “I don’t need medical attention. I need to find my wife!”

Brette stepped back as Ty edged up to Spenser, even took a step between them. But the voice that emerged bore patience, even understanding.

“Dude, I gotcha. And I agree. Listen, I got a buddy here who’s heading up the search and rescue. Let’s go find him, okay?”

Spenser took a breath, nodded.

Ty reached out again for Brette’s hand, and like it belonged there, she slipped hers into his grip.

He had warm, strong hands, and she wanted to hold on forever.

Ty headed for the RV, a long white slide-out with the words “Mobile Command Center” on the door. Pete’s voice spilled out from the screen door as he checked in with one of the teams . . . no, with Kacey, who was scouring the area by air. “Roger. Just keep doing a sweep of the area. The storm isn’t due until a little later today.”

At his words, Brette cast her gaze to the sky, and yes, in the distance she noticed the slightest gathering of Cu. But it seemed harmless, a little trickle of moisture at best.

Although challenging for a search and rescue operation. She gave Ty’s hand a squeeze before he released it.

“Hey, Pete, got a second?” Ty said.

Pete came down from the RV. Brette glanced over his shoulder inside and spied a bank of computer screens, some with grids of the area with blinking GPS lights. Another played the Doppler weather screen, which was blinking every two seconds with an update. She noticed a hot cell drifting northeast out of Colorado.

Yeah, that might be a twister by the time it hit Nebraska, or even Iowa.

“You’re supposed to be searching the northern grid,” Pete said without greeting.

Ty ignored him. “This is Spenser Maguire. His wife April is missing.”

Pete grabbed his phone and scrolled. “She’s not on the list of missing.”

And for a brilliant, wild second, hope took on physical form. Spenser’s intake of breath, the way he turned, cupped his hand over his mouth, as if trying not to cry. Brette wanted to touch his back, maybe grab a piece of all that overwhelming relief.

“She’s alive.” Spenser turned back to Pete. “She’s alive. Where is she?”

Pete turned back to the operations team. “Guys, track down an April Maguire. Look on the survivor list.”

Please.

Ty had found her hand again. This time she wove her fingers between his. She glanced at Spenser.

“Nope,” came the voice from inside.

Everything stilled inside Brette. Oh no.

Pete climbed back inside the command center. His voice lowered, but she caught it. “Check again.”

Spenser braced one hand on the RV, as if trying not to sag.

And then Pete returned.

She wanted to reach out, catch Spenser before he fell, but Ty beat her to it.

“She’s not on the survivor list either,” Pete said.

“Are you sure?” Brette asked, not able to stop herself.

“We’ve kept a tally of everyone who is accounted for. The only ones still missing are the five from the track team and a woman named Hattie Foreman.”

“And my wife,” Spenser said, barely above a whisper.

Pete nodded. “We’ll add her.”

Spenser leaned against the RV. Closed his eyes. “I should have never let her move here alone.” He opened his eyes, his gaze on Ty. “She just insisted.” He pushed off the RV, stalked away, and Brette winced when he made a feral sound and threw the water bottle across the parking lot.

Pete looked away.

But Ty walked right up to him. Stood beside him. And when Spenser turned, he grabbed him by the shoulders and met his eyes. “We’ll find her, man. We’ll find her.”

Why, oh why, had she ever run, not once, but twice, from this man?

Ty returned to Pete, Spenser behind him. “Pete, April is the new cross-country coach. Spenser seems to think she was—is—with the team and that they didn’t go out to Duck Lake but were training at a park in town. I think it’s worth checking out.”

Pete glanced at Spenser, then back to Ty. “Right. Okay, which park?”

Ty shook his head, and Pete invited him inside the RV. Brette followed them into the cramped space.

Two men manned the computer stations and were talking on walkies. Out of the window, she spied the Baptists hiking away in groups, armed with wheelbarrows, gloves, and shovels.

A map of the town, gridded and numbered, lay across a table. The group leaned over it.

“Her apartment is—was—here,” Spenser said, pointing to a building just off Park Avenue. “And here’s the park she often mentioned.”

A small square of green off Park Ave, labeled Heritage Park, maybe a mile from the fire station.

Right in the center of the tornado’s destruction, according to Pete’s markings.

Spenser saw it too, because his voice quavered. “She liked to go there—people walked their dogs and played Frisbee and . . . oh . . .” He pushed a fist to his mouth. Cleared his throat. “She would run the loop around town, about seven miles.”

“So, the team could have driven to the park, then run the loop for practice,” Brette said.

“Let’s go.” Ty glanced at Pete, who gave him a grim look.

“What?”

Pete shook his head. “You’ll see. But . . . here’s hoping.”

Brette landed behind Ty, with Spenser on her tail as they ran to the SUV. Chet was standing next to the car and now got in as he spied them heading his way.

In moments, Ty had them back on the road, heading north, back to Main, then west toward the park.

As they neared it, Pete’s tone took on meaning. The debris thickened the farther they drove down Main.

Ty found Park Ave and turned north.

A war zone. The trees lay dying, uprooted and smashed on the bungalows. Tudors and Victorian homes built in the last century were now reduced to ruin, their chimneys half toppled. Muddy, tangled roots blocked driveways. Some of the tree trunks had been split down the middle, the two halves falling away from each other. The thick bodies took out roofs and power lines and rammed through car windows.

It created a tangle of jungle they hadn’t a hope of driving their car through. Ty parked and they got out. Spenser ran toward the park, or what remained, and Brette followed, drawn by that ember of heat she called hope.

Ty caught her eye with a grim look but then offered a smile.

As if trying to keep the flame alive.

They climbed over trees, and Ty grabbed her arm, pulling her away from a live wire. “Careful.”

Ahead of them, Spenser had found what remained of a pavilion. He stood there, pale, his gaze fighting to land on something familiar.

Brette saw it before anyone else.

“Ty, is that a red—a red Impala? Or what used to be?”

A fire had consumed the vehicle. Only the trunk area, a dark, albeit grimy red, hinted at the car’s make.

Ty ran over to it, peered inside. “There’s nothing left. I’ll bet it was hit by one of the electrical lines.” Ty backed away, catching Brette before she could get too close.

Spenser stood a little ways away. “That’s not April’s car.”

“No, it belongs—or could belong—to one of the runners,” Ty said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry!”

Brette turned just in time to see Spenser backing up toward the SUV.

“We just have to find them!” He took off in a run toward the vehicle.

“This is horrible,” Brette said softly.

She could have predicted that with her words, Ty would put his arms around her. His embrace seemed to possess just enough strength to keep her upright.

Despite the odor of char and creosote and stripped foliage and even a hint of rain in the air, Ty could turn her weak with the very real redolence of comfort, safety. Hope.

Shame on her, but she just wanted to lift her face to his, put her arms around his neck, and draw him down in a kiss. Something that might make her forget, just for a moment, the chaos and pain and ache and downright fear that had seemed to dog her for the past year.

No, most of her life, really.

His chest rose and fell; his hand cupped the back of her neck. “It’ll be okay, Brette,” he said quietly, then leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

Ty. She lifted her face.

But he let her go.

He did grab her hand again, as if now they simply belonged together, and led her back to the car.

And she held on. Because she couldn’t do anything else.