Page 132 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

She wiped her hand on her jeans to remove as much of the blood as she could, then pulled out the keys.

He snatched them and pushed her forward. Across the room, out the door, down the steps, and up the walkway. Dean’s truck was parked behind hers. But Salcito didn’t seem concerned about that. Her car beeped, and the trunk popped open.

He pushed her toward it. She knew what he planned. The thought of allowing herself to be confined in the small trunk of her compact rental had nausea churning her stomach. Though perhaps at least some of that came from the concussion that blurred everything except what was right in front of her eyes.

He yanked out her suitcase. “You can either climb in, or I’ll put you in. If we go with option two, it’s going to hurt.”

She had no doubt it would, and he was still armed.

With Garrett’s handgun.

She prayed that wouldn’t be the cause of her death. She didn’t want Garrett to have to live with that.

She climbed into the small space, pulling her feet in behind her.

She lay on the hard floor while Salcito studied the trunk door. He found a red handle—the thing used to open the trunk from within, she assumed. He stepped out of her line of sight for a moment, then came back with an open pocketknife. It only took a few seconds for him to sever the cable holding the handle in place. Then he slammed the lid, leaving her in total darkness.

The darkness felt good.

She hadn’t realized how much the light was making her head pound until it was snuffed out.

She heard Brent moving. Heard a car engine start, then rumble. He was moving Dean’s car, though not far by the sound of it. A moment later, her car door opened. She felt the car shift as Salcito climbed in. The engine roared to life.

And then, they were on the road, not driving down toward town but up toward…what? What was higher up on the mountain?

Garrett had told her once. Houses owned by tourists. Summer homes.

The homes that had been under construction the night her mother had gone missing.

Brent would kill her and dispose of her body probably somewhere it would never be found.

People would believe Aspen had committed murder and then vanished.

Just like her mother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Garrett parked behind his uncle’s truck in the driveway.

Dean was here? There were no other cars in sight. Would Aspen have parked in the detached garage? Only if she planned to stay.

But Garrett doubted she’d gone to the trouble.

Maybe Dean was waiting for her too? But his pickup was empty.

Had they gone somewhere together?

That didn’t make sense, but Garrett couldn’t come up with another explanation.

Cote’d already climbed from the cruiser and was halfway up the walk, his gun unholstered and at the ready, by the time Garrett caught up with him.

He turned and leveled a hard stare at Garrett. “Get back in your truck. I’ll let you know when it’s safe.”

Garrett turned that way as if he’d comply.

As soon as Cote disappeared inside, he crept that direction. If Aspen was in danger, he wasn’t about to sit in his pickup and hope Cote could handle it. Stupid, maybe. But two people he loved were involved in this. He needed to know what was going on.

He heard Cote’s voice but couldn’t make out the quiet words through the storm door. Then Cote yelled, “McCarthy, get in here.”

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