she heard the deputy asking and a man’s response of “Sure. Whatever.”
“It’s a two-bedroom town house,” Oscar said to Bree. “This won’t take long.”
“I’ll wait.” Bree listened to Deputy Oscar open and close doors for a few minutes.
Then he said, “She’s not here.”
“Does the husband remember what she was wearing when she left?” Bree asked.
She heard Oscar repeat the question for Owen Thorpe.
Oscar said, “A blue blouse and jeans. Her raincoat is red. He doesn’t remember which shoes she was wearing.”
“OK. Stay with the husband for now. Keep him away from the news. Just tell him we’re looking for his wife.” Bree’s mind was spinning when Deputy Collins rapped on the driver’s-side window.
Bree stepped out of her vehicle.
Collins shook her head. “The construction company’s office is closed.”
Bree lifted her phone. “I’ll call the chief deputy.” She made the call to Chief Deputy Todd Harvey, who was on the local search-and-rescue team. After speaking with Todd, Bree turned back to Collins. “His ETA is twenty minutes. Use your cell to request additional units. We need to do an immediate foot search of this area. I’m going to scout around.”
While her deputy used her cell phone to contact dispatch, Bree stood on the road in front of Holly’s car and turned in a circle. Trees and rocks made up most of the landscape. Why did Holly stop here? The rush of water over rocks caught Bree’s attention. Her gaze shifted to the bridge. Holly had fought with her husband. Their argument had been serious enough for her to walk out on him. She must have been upset, possibly despondent.
Shit.
Bree strode toward the bridge. An old iron structure, the bridge was less than a hundred and fifty feet long and probably should have been replaced years ago. But rural county budgets didn’t prioritize little-used bridges until they collapsed in a storm. When Bree reached the middle, she looked over the railing. Thirty feet below, water rushed under the bridge.
Was the drop high enough to be fatal? Bree eyed the water churning below. Recent heavy rains had flooded the river beyond its usual depth. She didn’t know if a jumper would die on impact, but they wouldn’t swim away without injury. The current was swift. Downstream, boulders dotted the white water. It was unlikely many people would be able to make it to shore.
Bree followed the current. After passing under the bridge, the waterway turned to the east. A small offshoot curved to the west, continued to bend, and disappeared behind the trees. She would have to send deputies downriver along both banks.
She glanced at her watch. It was seven o’clock. The sun would set around eight. They had precious little daylight left. She strode back to where Deputy Collins stood next to her cruiser.
“Three units responded,” Collins said.
Bree inclined her head toward the river. “Did you walk all the way to the riverbank?”
Collins shook her head. “No, I just checked the bottom of this embankment in case she fell.”
Bree started down the slope. “Stay here and wait for backup. Tell Todd I’m walking down to the river.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Collins cast a glance over her shoulder at the bridge. “Do you think she jumped?”
“I don’t know.” Bree didn’t like to make assumptions. Preconceived theories interfered with a good investigation. But why else would Holly have parked here?
Bree scrambled down the rocky embankment and picked up a game trail. She trod carefully. Long evening shadows obscured the footing. After about fifty yards, the ground sheared off, the trees growing at acute angles straight up. The path doubled backward for twenty feet, then turned around. It must zigzag down the steeper terrain. Bree navigated the first leg. Ahead, the skinny trail forked. One branch turned toward the river below. The other offshoot headed up the slope in the opposite direction. At the turn, she heard something large rustling in the underbrush ahead. She stopped and pulled out her weapon.
Her senses tingled, as if there was a predator nearby.
Holly Thorpe’s killer?
Or Bree’s imagination?
Relax. It’s probably a deer.
This was a game trail.
Holly Thorpe’s car had been there for three days. If foul play had been involved in her disappearance, then the perpetrator would be long gone. But Bree’s instincts wouldn’t shut up.
Ahead, a twig snapped. Sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. Something was around the next bend. She squinted into the shadows down the trail, regripped her Glock, and aimed it toward the sound.
She backed up a step, easing one athletic shoe onto the trail, wary of