Safe At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron

“It’s all right, Charlotte, it’s all right.”

      “What’s wrong with her?” the man snapped. “She’s going to make it, isn’t she?”

      “Yes, but you need to leave.”

      “But she hasn’t told me anything,” he protested.

      “And she’s not going to,” Haley said. “Now, either leave or I’ll call security.”

      The man protested again.

      “Now,” Haley ordered.

      Emotion bubbled to the surface, threatening to spill over. Charlotte hated being in the dark, and at the mercy of others.

      Footsteps again, then the door closed. Her chest heaved as she breathed out.

      Then Haley was back. “I’m sorry about that.”

      “He said he was a cop,” Charlotte said.

      “He was no cop,” Haley said with a grunt of disgust. “That man is a reporter, and not a nice one. He’ll do anything for a story.”

      Charlotte closed her eyes, grateful she hadn’t said anything to him. She’d instantly felt uneasy with him.

      Not like she had with Lucas. He’d made her feel safe.

      The reporter’s name replayed in her head. She vaguely recalled seeing him on the news. Haley was right.

      He was ruthless. Had been known to run with a story without verifying the facts or his source. Had interviewed victims of crimes before and implied they were at fault for being victimized.

      What kind of garbage would he air about her?

      * * *

      LUCAS SCANNED THE area as he and Harrison approached the abandoned warehouses. They were only a few miles from the cave at Dead Man’s Bluff where they’d found his sister’s body.

      The gruesome image of her bones lying beside two other young girls’ skeletons would haunt him forever. The fact that she’d lain there dead for almost two decades made matters worse. All that time they’d searched for her, and struggled to hold on to hope that somehow she was alive.

      But her disappearance turned out to be a tragic accident. A mentally challenged boy named Elden had wanted to make friends with Chrissy, but he hadn’t realized his strength, and he’d smothered her to death. His mother had protected him. Unfortunately, Chrissy wasn’t his only victim.

      Harrison’s police SUV bounced over the rugged terrain, gravel and dirt spewing.

      A row of three warehouses popped into view as Harrison steered the vehicle over a small hill. A rusted-out black cargo van sat by the building.

      Except this van had been burned and only the charred shell remained.

      Lucas’s pulse jumped. If the trafficking ring had brought the girls here to house them until they moved them to buyers, they might have left the girls inside.

      The area looked desolate, the warehouses weathered, the steel siding dingy. The Texas sun faded to night, casting shadows across the rugged land.

      “It looks deserted,” Harrison said.

      “We need to check inside the spaces,” Lucas said. “You’d be shocked at some places traffickers hold women and children. Boats, storage containers, old barns, the back of cargo vans and trucks. Damn inhumane.”

      Harrison’s mouth tightened as he closed the distance to the warehouses. “Hard to imagine people buying and selling children and women like they’re cattle.”

      Except they might treat cattle with more care. Although if selling the girls at auction to the highest bidder was their game, they would try to preserve the girls’ physical appearance.

      No visible bruising or injuries.

      They’d probably use drugs to keep them under control.

      Gears ground, brakes squeaking as Harrison slowed the SUV and swung to a stop. Lucas eased his car door open and slid from the seat, senses honed as he scanned the area between the warehouses.

      He and Harrison both pulled their guns, and he braced for trouble as they walked past the charred van then toward the warehouses. Harrison shined a pocket flashlight across the ground.

      Lucas did the same, then motioned to Harrison that he spotted tire tracks. He veered right to check the warehouse on the end, while Harrison went left. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he approached, and he paused to listen at the doorway. He expected it to be locked, but the bolt that had held it closed had been cut and sat in a pile of weeds to the side.

      He leaned against the door edge and listened, hoping to hear the sound of girls’ voices, something to indicate they were inside.

      But he heard nothing.

      Frustration knotted his stomach as he eased the door open and aimed the light inside. The space was empty.

      Dammit.

      Still, he inched inside to search in case there was a room, a box, or a cage hidden in the darkened space.

      * * *

      CHARLOTTE FADED INTO a restless sleep and dreamed that a reporter was in the room snapping photographs of her. She woke, her pulse hammering.

      Inhaling to calm her raging heart, she listened for signs the man had returned.

      As a child, she’d been self-conscious of her port-wine birthmark. That image of her remained locked in her head, and reminded her that she had once been debilitated by it. No one had wanted her as their child. People had stared and made cruel remarks. Other children had been afraid that if they touched her, that stain would rub off on them.

      Tears pricked at her eyes. She blinked furiously to stem them, searching for some semblance of light in the room, but blackness prevailed. Still, she ran her fingers over her cheek, remembering the pain of looking different and wondering if her face or eyes were scarred or appeared unusual.

      If the morning paper or news would show her lying in bed, weak and vulnerable, the details of her sordid childhood exposed for the world to see.

      Guilt and shame quickly overrode her concern—how could she possibly worry about her looks or people reading about her past when her students needed her? No telling what they were going through.

      Her breathing turned erratic again, and she suddenly felt like her chest was going to explode. Pain shot through her, stifling and frightening. One of the monitors went off, the beeping more rapid with the tune of her breathing.

      The door screeched open, then footsteps. “Ms. Reacher, I’m here.” Haley’s voice, soothing and calm. Her hand gently brushed Charlotte’s. “Did something happen?”

      Charlotte shook her head. “A nightmare.”

      “That’s understandable. You’ve been through hell,” the nurse said.

      Charlotte gasped for a breath again, that tight sensation returning.

      “Just try to relax, take slow even breaths.”

      “What’s happening?” Charlotte asked, her voice cracking as she clawed for air.

      “You’re having a panic attack,” Haley said softly. “It’s not uncommon, especially after suffering a trauma. Try to imagine yourself in a happy place.”

      Charlotte nodded miserably and forced herself to do as Haley instructed. Slow breaths. Think of a happy place.

      Her studio. The paints. The vibrant colors. Reds and blues and purples, shades of violet. Yellow, like the sunflowers she adored. Then pastels. The pale yellow of the moon on a cool night when she gazed at the stars. The light blue of the sky on a sunny day, of the ocean at sunset.

      Except the attack had tainted the image of the studio. Her happy place was no longer tranquil or peaceful, but shrouded in the horror of what had