The door closed behind the dumbass. The idea that Clay had gotten information by any means infuriated Wyatt. But he had far bigger problems than that little prick right now.
Wyatt closed his eyes. Two missing women ... no evidence.
Though he had no clue what this bastard’s timeline was, Wyatt had a bad, bad feeling that time was running out ...
. . . for Addy.
20
4720 Miller Road; 5:00 p.m.
Irene stared at the television screen, shock rippling along her nerve endings.
Another woman was missing.
Penny Arnold.
The pictures of the two victims were plastered across the screen. Both young. Wives. Mothers.
Blond.
Dear God.
In the statement to the press, the police had cautiously veered away from terms like “serial” and “murder.” Since no bodies had been recovered it was still officially a potential kidnapping case.
If that poor Prescott woman had been murdered ...
Irene clasped her hands together and sent another fervent prayer heavenward.
Too weak to hold the pose, her hands fell to her lap and her gaze shifted to the framed photograph of her sweet daughter on the table next to her.
Adeline hadn’t been able to meet her for lunch today since she’d received word that another victim had gone missing. She’d promised to make it up to Irene tomorrow.
Please, dear Lord, protect my daughter.
The images of Cherry Prescott and Penny Arnold appeared on the television screen once more. Irene’s chest tightened as she studied each face. The nose and lips ... the shape of the eyes. Blue eyes. She picked up the photo of her precious Addy and held it in the air so that it visually lined up with those on the screen.
Tears brimmed, blurring her eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”
Irene’s hand trembled. She hugged the photo to her chest. She had to do something. She couldn’t pretend any longer that this would just go away.
Her hand still shaking, she reached for the phone. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pressed the numbers. Her chest squeezed painfully yet somehow she summoned the necessary words. “I’d like to speak tohim.”
She moistened her lips, tried to take a breath. It wasn’t possible.
“Irene?”
A shudder rocked through her body.
“Something else has happened,” she said with all the strength she possessed. Her lips quivered and she summoned her fleeing courage. “I’m coming over there. We have to talk, Cyrus. Something has to be done.”
21
4718 Miller Road; 6:30 p.m.
Clay stamped up the steps and across the porch.
He’d been summoned.