Page 79 of Toxic

And then he had her. She gasped, choking, as he ripped her away from the deck.

She went under, and her cries cut out, replaced by bubbles and muffled screaming. He forced her head down, while he kicked up toward the surface.

Her lungs burned, felt as though they were about to explode.

Something snapped inside, and the green of her view morphed into black.

Chapter Thirty-Five

CONNOR WAS EXACTLYtwo minutes late for his drop-off at the base of the enormous and quirky Fremont Troll. He whispered a fevered petition, sending it up.Please don’t let a couple of minutes matter. I’m here. I’ve done what I’ve been asked.

He tumbled from the black Lexus SUV and stood in the fading light, watching as the vehicle made a U-turn and headed back out to pick up its next fare.

Because of the rain that had started as they were driving, the encroaching darkness, and the accompanying chill, the area around the troll was deserted. Connor hurried to place the bag he’d carried under his arm beneath the troll’s fingers. He slid it as much out of sight as he possibly could.

The Fremont Troll was a Seattle icon, and Connor had always delighted in the fact that he lived in a city where something like this existed. It was quirky, maybe a little scary, and definitely something he loved to show out-of-towners when he had a chance. The thing was more than twice as tall as Connor and must have weighed a ton. In the wizened fingers of its right hand, it clutched an actual Volkswagen Beetle, covered in the same concrete. Rumor had it that once upon a time the car held a time capsule with a bust of Elvis Presley, but that was stolen when the troll was vandalized. The troll’s right eye looked blinded and yet, paradoxically, as though it could see him.

He wondered if what had once been a bit of fantastic whimsy would turn grim and dark, something he couldn’t bear to see again, even think about.

He needed to leave, even though he didn’t want to. But if Trey, or whomever this kidnapper was, wanted the money, he wouldn’t creep out from his hiding place until the coast was clear.

Reluctantly, Connor retreated.

He took the stairs up to the Aurora Bridge. Cars, unconcerned, whizzed by on the busy span. Connor stared out into the darkness and couldn’t resist moving to the edge, with its high bars to prevent the suicides that had once happened so often, and peering down.

He waited, hoping now that night had fallen, the shadows would provide enough cover. It seemed as though half an hour had passed and no one arrived, save for a couple of teenage boys, laughing and fooling around on skateboards, despite the rain, which had now become a downpour.

They left and again, all was still. Connor sighed, trembling. He’d read enough true crime as research and for pleasure that he knew how kidnappings often ended up—money was taken and nothing came back.

Except for a dead body. At the thought, Connor groaned.

He peered up at the top of the barriers for the bridge, wondering if he could manage to swing himself over. Because, if he lost Miranda tonight, along with all of his other losses, he seriously pondered just throwing himself off the tall span. Why not? He would have so little reason to go on.

He watched and waited.

And just when he was ready to give up, a figure emerged to the left of the Troll. It was too dark, and he was too far away for Connor to discern much more than the fact that the figure was female and she was limping.

And then he let out a little cry of joy. Because, even with the limp, he knew that walk. His own blood called to his blood—his heart cried out to his very heart.

Miranda.

Connor tore across the bridge and down the stairs at its end.

He arrived just in time to see her stumble and collapse in front of the Volkswagen Beetle.

“Sweetheart?” Connor’s voice quavered. He knelt beside her. Even in the dim light, he could see she was wet and that blood had dried on her neck. Her hair was a tangled Medusa mess. Her breathing was ragged, and she stretched a hand out to him and then dropped it, as though even this small effort was too much.

“Daddy,” she whispered, words thick, almost unintelligible.

He held her, drawing her close. She shivered, and when her head dropped onto his chest, he cried out as though he was the wounded one. A large gash there still oozed blood.

“Honey? Honey, wake up. We need to get you some help.” Not letting go, he groped for his phone and pressed 911.

Epilogue

The Following Spring

“COULD IT BE?”Connor sunk down in the hot tub until the near-scalding water was level with his chin. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the perfection. But who wanted to keep one’s eyes shut with the view he had before him? His eyelids fluttered up, a curtain rising to reveal the stunning beauty of the unspoiled Pacific Northwest—calm blue-gray waters, pine-covered bluffs, a sky made dramatic with huge banks of clouds working in harmony with a late-afternoon sky that was cornflower blue. The hue was one that could only come from the refraction of light and the play of shadow.

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