Page 26 of Delta
I lift another bloom, and a scent that doesn’t belong teases my nose. Pushing it away, I study the tips of the flowers, running my gloved fingertips over them. When I look down at the blue, I notice it’s dusted with white.
Drugs.
She was drugged.
Which means he took her alive.
Carefully setting the bloom aside, I reach into my pocket and withdraw my cell phone.
“Lawson,” Gibson answers on the first ring.
“Did you bag one of the flowers?”
He’s quiet a moment. “The flowers?”
“You said you had your crime scene tech here; did he take one of the flowers near the broken vase?”
“Let me check.” I can hear papers ruffling in the background; then he mutters something under his breath. “They were noted in the description of the scene, but I don’t see that any were bagged.”
“You need better resources,” I say, not caring at all whether he takes offense to it or not.
“You’re telling me. My usual guy is out on vacation, and the county sent someone over who I’m fairly certain can’t even tie his own shoes. What’s with the flowers?”
“There’s a powdery substance on the petals. Likely a drug that he used to subdue her without a fight. I want to know what it is.”
“You and me both. I’ll head down there myself and bag one.”
“No need. I’ll do it for you and drop it by.”
“Great. Tucker get any leads on the image you took of our mystery man?”
“He’s running him now. I’ll check in on him once I leave here.”
“Okay. Thanks. We’re running prints from the house too.”
“Let me know if you find anything.” I end the call without saying goodbye, then search Emma’s drawers until I find a plastic Ziplock bag. After sliding the flower carefully inside, I set it on the counter.
The cat comes meandering in, and I reach down and scoop him up before he can step on the glass or the drugs. Without knowing what it is, I can’t be sure Emma’s cat would survive exposure. Which also means he can’t stay here.
“Looks like you’re coming home with me,” I say to the animal. “I hope you like dogs.”
Chapter 8
Emma
In my nightmare, I fight for my life.
But when my eyes flutter open, there’s no one around but me. Head throbbing, I sit up out of bed, ready for a mug of tea and a shower that will hopefully clear my brain fog. But the events of the last few hours slam into me one by one, and I realize that it’s not my bed I’m in—and the panic kicks right back in.
Heart racing, I throw the covers aside and jump out of the plush four-poster bed, complete with what I used to call fairy-tale curtains surrounding it. The room I’m in is huge. As in presidential-suite-at-a luxury-hotel huge.
This is all wrong.
The carpet is red with golden flowers—a relatively obnoxious pattern that makes my already throbbing headache intensify. The walls are covered in cream-colored wallpaper with light golden swirls. There’s a nightstand, a dresser, and a door that leads to an adjoining bathroom.
Where am I? Where did he take me?
I rush toward the door first, but when the handle won’t turn, I head for the window and throw the curtains aside. An audible gasp leaves my lips when I find myself staring down at waves crashing into jagged rocks. I’m at least three floors up and on a coast somewhere. But where? I don’t remember ever leaving Texas, and I certainly don’t recall any part of the Lone Star State looking like this.
