Page 17 of Love Me Fierce

Though I don’t have proof, I sense this guy’s gone.

I draw my weapon and shut my door, then walk to the back of the Taurus. Garbage bags filled to the brink with clothing are heaped in the open trunk area, along with several plastic water bottles. Walking slowly, I take in the rest of the vehicle’s interior, hoping the driver left something behind I can use to identify him. Like a wallet. But the backseat has what looks like a Slumberjack sleeping bag—the cheap kind sold at surplus shops, the metal zipper busted. The front seats are empty.

There’s a chance the guy left prints, like on the steering wheel or other areas. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a match. Not that it would do us much good if he’s fled.

But if it’s the same vehicle that was at Glory Holes…

I continue walking to the front of the vehicle, but it’s intact, no obvious marks or missing license plate, then scan the riverbank and the concrete ramp sloping into the current. Doubtful the guy is hiding in the frigid water, but the only way to avoid nasty surprises is to cover all the bases, even the improbable ones.

After walking back to my rig to call in a tow truck, I holster my weapon and slip on a pair of nitrile gloves. When I try the Taurus’s door handle, it’s unlocked. I do a quick search under the seats but find only wrappers, dead leaves, and trash. I check the glove box hoping for the registration, but it’s empty.

I widen my search to the area around the Taurus. The boat ramp, the underbrush leading into the trees. It’s overkill, but if I find footprints, then I’ll at least know how this guy got away. I’m about to turn back to my rig when I spot a paper coffee cup behind a thick bramble. There’s no telling if it came from the driver of the Taurus, but I bag it and label it anyway.

Rex Rolland, our overworked county prosecutor, isn’t going to approve the department spending money for a DNA analysis on what could be anyone’s trash for a stolen vehicle likely being used as temporary housing, but collecting it costs nothing.

Dispatch raises me on my portable. “Go ahead,” I reply while scanning the last stretch of underbrush.

“Uh, we got a call from the middle school,” Gerry says, concern lacing his tone.

We have a safety officer posted at the high school. Did I miss his call for backup?

“In regard to…?” I ask Gerry just as my cell rings. FINN RIVER MIDDLE SCHOOL flashes on the caller ID.

Unease tickles the back of my gut as I answer my cell. “Everett Rumsey.”

A woman with an even, calm tone greets me. “Good morning, Mr. Rumsey, this is Vice Principal Peggy Cromwell. Can you come down to the school?”

“Is there an emergency?”

“No, no emergency.”

It dawns on me that they’re calling not about a police matter, buta personal one. A niggling unease burns into my chest. “Is Logan okay?”

“Yes.”

I exhale a full breath, puffing my cheeks. It gives me the moment I need to put the pieces together. “He’s in trouble?”

“Come to the main entrance.”

“Right.” I nod, even though she can’t see me. “It’s going to be, ah—” The tow truck comes rumbling down the gravel road “—at least twenty minutes.”

“Like I said. No emergency, and he’s still with the nurse.”

The nurse? “Hold on. You said he was okay. What happened?”

“He’s fine. He was in a fight, and just um, needed an ice pack.”

I blink at the tow truck slowing to a stop behind the Taurus. This makes zero sense. “All right.”

“We’ll see you soon,” the vice principal says.

Chapter Six

EVERETT

My kid,in a fight?

We’re barely a month into his career as a sixth grader. When Mom told me the middle school years could be tough, I don’t think this is what she meant. I shake my head. Logan’s not prone to violence. Something’s not adding up here.

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