Page 33 of If You're Reading This
Another car had pulled off onto the side of the road here. The tracks had then been covered with a fresh round of snow but hadn’t completely disappeared.
Logan followed the tracks before turning into a small opening between the trees—a space just large enough for a car.
Andi and Duke followed him through the woods.
If Morgan’s car had been stashed here, the vehicle wouldn’t be far off the road.
But they walked a good quarter of a mile before Logan finally saw something shiny between the brush.
A car.
Morgan’s car.
Logan’s heart thumped harder in his ears at the realization.
He prayed Morgan wasn’t inside. That she wasn’t harmed.
Either way, he was about to find out.
Logan braced himself for what he might find inside the car.
He reached for his service weapon and drew it with practiced precision, the weight familiar against his palm.
The forest felt silent and undisturbed around him.
Logic told himself no one was nearby. But instinct and experience demanded caution.
“I’ve got point,” he murmured to Duke and Andi. “Stay back until I clear it.”
Each step toward the abandoned Subaru felt leaden. The vehicle sat unnaturally among the spruce trees, a covering of snow over its dark-blue paint.
Logan mentally cataloged the details. There was no shattered glass. The tires were intact.
And the driver’s door was closed but possibly unlocked.
The forest seemed to hold its breath around them.
There was no birdsong or rustling leaves—just the soft crunch of his boots on snow and the thundering of his own pulse in his ears.
Staying low, he approached from the rear quarter panel.
He scanned the ground for footprints.
He saw none. If they’d been here, they’d been covered up.
At the driver’s side door Logan paused, steeling himself before looking inside. In his career, he’d seen too many crime scenes where the interior of a vehicle told the final chapter of someone’s story.
The images flashed unbidden—blood-spattered upholstery, signs of struggle.
Worse.
Please. Not Morgan. Not like this.
He angled his flashlight against the glass, illuminating the interior.
Empty.
The breath he’d been holding escaped in a ragged exhale. But his relief was premature.
