Page 95 of Husband Missing

A trooper cordoned off the backyard with crime scene tape in anticipation of the forensic team. Only the paramedics wereallowed past it. Josie’s chest pressed against it as she watched them leave their stretcher outside and enter the shed, bags in hand.

Minutes ticked by but no one emerged. They weren’t coming out. Why weren’t they coming out? Maybe she asked the question out loud because Heather said, “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

People moved all around Josie. Evidence techs in Tyvek suits swarmed the yard and still no one came out of the shed. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe only a reasonable amount of time had passed but it felt like a thousand years, and she was so close. So damn close.

What if they were too late? She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t handle it.

Her heart. Her heart was going so fast and now she felt everything and the pressure on her chest was so much worse, crushing, crushing, and she was pretty sure her rib cage was cracking because the crushing was too much. It was too much. Someone was next to her, talking, but she couldn’t look at them because no one was coming out of the shed and she wasn’t going to survive this. She knew it. She wouldn’t. This was the worst one. Worse than Ray or Lisette or Mettner. This was worse than anything Lila ever did to her, and she wouldn’t be able to take this. She wouldn’t.

An arm curled around her shoulders. Chief Chitwood’s voice broke through her silent hysteria. “Quinn.”

She couldn’t remember him ever being affectionate toward her, even in her lowest moments, but she sagged into him, nonetheless. At that moment, one of the paramedics came out and started gathering equipment.

“Look,” said the Chief. “Spine board. Cervical collar. Not a body bag.”

Noah was carried out moments later, secured to the spine board, and placed onto the stretcher. When they finally cleared the crime scene tape, the Chief gave her a gentle push and there he was, finally, within reach. The air whooshed out of her lungs when she saw the damage to his face, the head wound, the dried blood everywhere, the bruising on every inch of exposed skin. The Chief gripped her shoulders, steadying her again. Despite the paramedics scolding her, she laid her hands on Noah, touching him lightly everywhere she could, avoiding his face, while she walked alongside the stretcher.

“Josie.”

His voice again. Faint, broken, buthisvoice.

“I’m here,” she said. “Oh God, I’m here.”

“You came.”

She rested a palm gently on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, strong and steady despite how he looked. “I’ll always run toward the danger with you.”

“That’s my line.” A smile stretched across his battered face. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

The paramedics paused when they reached the back of the ambulance. The cervical collar wouldn’t allow Noah to turn toward her so she leaned over his face, grinning so wide, her cheeks hurt. “Promise to always come home to me.”

“I promise,” he answered, voice still strained. “But let’s stop at the hospital first. I might want to try out their CT scanner.”

SIXTY-NINE

Laughter burst from Josie’s lips and the weight of the past three days lifted. The paramedics chuckled, too. Even the Chief cracked a smile.

Then Josie was shooed aside as Noah was loaded into the back of the ambulance. “You can ride with him but just give us a minute.”

She took a step back while they performed their checks and readied Noah for the journey. The fear and anxiety that had consumed her until this moment drained away. It felt like coming back to herself. Everything was quiet inside her brain. Taking a deep breath, she turned back toward the scene in time to see Heather guiding Erica out of the shed.

This was not the plucky woman who had lied to Gretchen in the Denton PD interrogation room with forced confidence. The woman trudging toward her was bedraggled. Her blonde hair was matted, much of it stained varying shades of reddish-brown. Dried blood streaked her pale skin. A bruise darkened one of her temples. Her rumpled, dirty tank top fully exposed the bruises on her throat and wrists. Blood-covered sweatpants sagged on her thin hips. Her gait was wonky, one foot in only a sock while the other wore a sneaker.

Her eyes found Josie and flickered with the same recognition they had the day Gretchen had taken her into custody. They were more haunted now, sorrowful, making it hard to find a resemblance to Lila. It was there though, in the high cheekbones, the fullness of her lips and the black roots peeking from her scalp.

They didn’t speak as Heather walked her past. It wasn’t the time for that. Josie backed up to give them room. Her heel came down on something. It rolled under her boot, sending her off-balance. Flailing her arms, she shifted her weight to her other foot, avoiding an embarrassing tumble. The shaft of an arrow rolled along the asphalt of the driveway. Its green fletching was shredded and its broadhead had either broken off or never been attached.

It was outside the crime scene tape, but Josie didn’t dare touch it. Had Gina practiced here? The lodge was in Mace’s name though it had been transferred to him from their father, Clint.

Where the driveway met the thin grass of the yard, a trail of related items led to a plywood table. A single glove sat in its center. A traditional bow teetered on the edge, its smooth, light maple finish in stark contrast to the rough surface of the table. Beyond that was a large square target and three additional small, foam targets in the shape of rabbits.

Rabbits.

Josie’s heart did a double-tap. She stepped right up to the crime scene tape again, letting it graze her chest. Craning her neck, she studied the items scattered along the patchy grass. Searching, searching. Question and answer.

Josie’s knowledge of archery was based almost entirely on things she’d learned from coworkers who were lifelong hunters. There were two types of bows. One was the traditional bow which was just what it sounded like—the kind humans hadbeen using for thousands of years. She knew those came in two different shapes. The longbow formed a D, its limbs curving toward the archer, whereas the limbs of the recurve bow curled toward the target. Josie had always thought of the recurve as the longbow in a fancier font.

Behind her, one of the paramedics spoke. “UPMC Williamsport will take him. They’re a level-two trauma center.”

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