0373447477 (R) by Shirlee McCoy Page A

house?”
    “Sure.” August accelerated through a patch of grass, the SUV kicking up a cloud of dust. When it finally cleared, they’d come to a stop in a desolate yard—rusted swing set, dried-out plants, a garden area filled with choked weeds.
    Still no sign of the Jeep.
    “You’re sure this is the right place,” August asked, turning off the engine and opening his door. He’d lost a lot of blood, the bandage beneath his shirt now soaked with it.
    Chance frowned, scrolling back through the texts. “She said an old boarded-up house with a crumbling barn behind it. First one we’d see.”
    “This has to be it then.” Malone climbed out of the vehicle, that feeling sweeping over him again—the one that said danger, be on your guard, trouble ahead. His skin felt tight, the hair on his nape standing on end.
    Nothing moved in the cornfield behind the house. No birds. No squirrels. No rabbits scurrying through the abandoned garden. The world had gone still, and he stilled, too, listening to the silence, to the soft swish of grass in the September breeze. He could feel rain in the air, smell rich loamy earth and decay.
    Quinn grabbed his hand, her fingers warm and dry, her skin soft as she tried to pull him into the vehicle. “You guys need to get back in the car. Something’s wrong.”
    No one responded. Chance had exited the vehicle, and he closed the door with a quiet snap that sent a lone bird flying from a gnarled oak. It cawed raucously, the sound sending a chill of warning through Malone’s blood.
    He stepped away from the SUV, motioning for August to move into position to block Quinn. She’d try to follow. He could almost guarantee that.
    Chance moved in beside him, matching his pace as they headed toward the cornfield. It was the only place a Jeep could be hidden on the property. Everything else was too bare, too open.
    “We’ll split. You head east. I’ll go west. Look for tire tracks. You find them, signal. We’ll move in together.” Chance split to the west, and Malone skirted around the edges of the cornfield.
    No tracks. No sign that anyone had been there.
    Stella was smart, though. She wouldn’t have wanted to leave a trail.
    He surveyed the property, looking for signs that she’d taken another route. In the distance, a road bisected the property. He could see just a hint of it, the blacktop gleaming in the sun. Had she used that as her access point?
    He reached the edge of the cornfield, his gaze tracking the trajectory of the road. It curved around the property—first north and then west. If Stella had entered the property that way, she’d have ended up at the back of the cornfield, driving across grass and dirt to reach the house.
    Unless the house wasn’t where she’d been heading.
    The old barn was at the back of the field, jutting up toward the blue sky, its brown-gray boards sagging, its roof caved in. He moved toward it, finally catching glimpse of what he was looking for—tire marks. They cut deep into the earth, revealing dark soil and bits of gravel. He followed the tracks to the double-wide doors of the barn. They yawned open, the floor of the barn littered with hay and abandoned farm equipment. No Jeep, but he could see that the other side of the barn dumped out into the cornfield—only a stretch of three or four hundred feet between it and the first stalks.
    Had Stella gone there?
    If she had, why?
    A soft whistle broke the eerie silence. He whistled back, signaling for Chance to come to him. They’d done this kind of thing hundreds of times before—reconnaissance of an area, the two of them moving in sync as they surveyed a building, a piece of property and, now, an old barn.
    Seconds later, Chance appeared in the barn doorway, his face grim. They didn’t speak, just moved through side by side, exiting at the far end, stepping out into bright sunlight and the subtle scent of smoke.
    “Where’s that coming from?” Chance said, breaking the silence. There was no panic