Is She Really Gone (Patterson Blake FBI Mystery Thriller Series Book 2)
IS SHE REALLY GONE
A.M. STRONG
West Street Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to events or places, or real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by A. M. Strong
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art and interior design by Bad Dog Media, LLC.
For Sonya
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
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About the Author
PROLOGUE
If Miranda Olson had known that staying late at work meant she would be dead nine hours later, she might not have agreed to cover the afternoon shift when Stacy Capello called in sick. Miranda should have left the Cherished Memories and Moments gift shop at two in the afternoon, but instead, she was still there when the store closed at seven—a willing worker-bee grateful for the extra money her tired feet had earned.
At seven on the dot, and not a minute later, she locked the front doors against any last-minute looky-loos who might happen along and helped her boss cash out the register. Fifteen minutes later, she slipped on her coat and headed out into the dark and chilly January evening, blissfully unaware of the dominoes that were falling one by one to ensure that her life ended right on time. And all because Stacy Capello wanted a long weekend with her boyfriend at a romantic bed-and-breakfast and figured she was owed a sick day.
But Miranda was not cognizant of her coworker’s deceit. All she knew was that Stacy’s absence had put a few extra dollars in her paycheck, which meant she would be able to pay the electric bill on time for once.
Right now, though, she wanted to get out of the tan slacks and white shirt with the gift shop’s logo embroidered on the left breast, slip on her jogging pants and the Nike’s her parents had given her for Christmas, then hit the trail behind her apartment building for a couple of laps around the lake.
And that was precisely what she did, even though she knew it wasn’t a good idea for an attractive young woman to be running alone on a secluded pathway after dark.
Miranda left her second-floor apartment, descended to ground level, and sprinted across the back parking lot. Her long brown hair was pulled tight into a ponytail at the back of her head. Her apartment key swung from her wrist on an expandable plastic coil—better than keeping it in her pocket. Despite the nippy air, she wore a tank top because she never got cold when running. Just the opposite. By the time she returned to the apartment after three laps of the mile-long trail, her clothes would be sticky with sweat.
That was a good thing. It meant she was working off calories. Slimming down. Only this morning, her fiancé had mentioned how much weight she’d gained, and he was right. She was lying in bed, willing herself to get up and pee, which meant leaving the bedroom and walking to the other side of the apartment, which was always too cold because she couldn’t afford to turn the heat on. A journey made more daunting by the fact that she’d fallen asleep naked last night after they’d had sex. Something she rarely did because she was so self-conscious about her body. But no sooner had she pushed the covers back than he’d reached out toward her exposed belly and pinched the skin between thumb and forefinger, pulling it up into a fleshy tent.
“You’re getting fat,” he’d said, eyeing her nudity as if he were looking at the carcass of some dead and bloated creature that had washed up on a beach. “The wedding is in three months. You won’t fit into your dress.”
Every girl’s worst nightmare.
The fitting had been in November, before the holidays. She was bound to have packed on a pound or two, which was why she was going to jog tonight, even if it meant doing so in the dark. And because it would please him, of course.
Right now, she needed to please him. Her fiancé had been in a bad temper when he left that morning despite the previous evening’s frantic session between the sheets. His bad mood had started hours before they even fell into bed. He had dragged her to a bar across town where an up-and-coming band was playing—the Kings of Destruction. After a couple of years on the local circuit, they had scored a record deal and were about to start a country-wide tour opening for a much bigger group. They were, he assured her, going to be huge, which was why he wanted to get some signed merchandise now before they hit the big time. To this end, he had been pulling down posters advertising the gig for a week and took the opportunity of a break between sets to ask the band to autograph them for resale later. This was how he made his money. Hawking memorabilia.
And it was lucrative, especially since he wasn’t opposed to creating his own if necessary. He could sign a mean Jimmy Buffett or Dave Matthews, mostly on old guitars or albums purchased from thrift stores and pawn shops. In this case, he had decided to go the regular route of getting the real thing. At least until he saw her talking to the band’s drummer, who had bypassed her fiancé and gone to the bar for a drink. He almost punched the guy then accused her of flirting. He was still sniping on the way back to her apartment that night. When they made love—something she thought would calm him down—it was rough and quick, as if he were trying to reclaim her. Make Miranda his own again. But she forgave him as always, and now she would get back into his good books by making sure that wedding dress fit.
Miranda reached the gate that led from the apartment parking lot to the trail. Here she paused, eying the narro
w path that weaved off into the darkness between the trees, praying for a fellow soul to appear and ease her misgivings.
But there was nobody.
The trail was empty.
And it felt darker than usual.
Trees pressed in on both sides, the space between them filled with impenetrable blackness that hid the lake she knew was there. She looked up at the light mounted on a pole that was supposed to illuminate the path, but it wasn’t working.
Dammit. The bulb must have blown.
Further along the trail, she could see another pole casting a circular pool of light. But to reach it, she would have to run through the unlit gloom.
Miranda felt a tingle of apprehension.
She looked back across the parking lot at the apartment complex. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. She could turn around, go back to her apartment, and pull the cork from that bottle of Shiraz sitting on her kitchen counter instead. But even as the idea formed in her head, she resisted, remembering the mortifying belly pinch that very morning.
No. She would push on.
Besides, it was probably safe enough. She would surely run into someone, even if it were only Mr. Blain, the older man who lived in 4C, giving his poodle a bathroom break.
Just one lap around the trail, she promised herself. Not the usual three. That would be enough to justify opening the wine.
Miranda sprinted forward, ignoring the growing sense of unease as the shadows wrapped around her like a shroud. Ahead of her, the light pole stood like a beacon of safety. An oasis in a sea of black. Beyond it, there would be another pole, she knew, then another. And those would be lit. She hoped. And even if they weren’t, she wasn’t returning to the apartment and that bottle of wine until she’d achieved at least one complete circuit.
That was the deal she had made with herself.
Her footfalls sounded heavy on the gravel. Her breath came in short, sharp exhalations that fogged the icy air that was doing its best to push below zero.
She reached the next light pole, and her unease lifted—just a little. There was a bench around the curve where she usually stopped to do squats and stretch her legs. Reach that, and she would be a quarter way around. The next waypoint would be a small public parking lot that sat on the other side of the lake. This part of the trail was better lit. There was also a jetty with a covered area at the end where folk could sit and look out over the water. After that, she would be on the homeward stretch, running back toward the apartment complex rather than away from it.
This thought gave her a lift, and she pushed her legs to work just a bit harder and get her home quicker.
She could see the bench now, coming up on the right. But she had no intention of pausing to stretch. Not this time. She blew past it and kept going.
From somewhere in the trees off to her left, she heard a lonesome cry—an owl hooting in the darkness. The melancholy sound did little to ease her frayed nerves.
Not long now, she told herself, and you’ll be at the jetty, halfway around the loop. Just keep going. You can do it.
But despite the cajoling voice in her head, she was tempted to turn and retreat in the other direction. Why bother putting herself through this? Just get up an hour earlier in the morning and run when it’s light out. Except she knew that wouldn’t happen. Miranda was not a morning person. It was all she could do to drag her tired ass to the car and stop at Starbucks for a mocha latte on the way to work.
No. Best to just finish what she’d started.
Tomorrow was Saturday, the busiest day of the week at the store, but there would be extra help on hand because of it, so she wouldn’t need to work two shifts. That meant getting home while it was still daylight. And if she didn’t—if some inconsiderate person didn’t show up for their shift and Miranda ended up stuck on another double—then she sure as hell wasn’t jogging in the dark again.
Screw that.
Maybe she should just do as her fiancé wanted. Quit her job and move in with him right away, rather than after the wedding. He could support them both without her wage if they didn’t have to maintain two separate residences. At thirty, he was seven years her senior. He was also a successful businessman. That was how he described himself to others—A businessman! Even though he just sold stuff online.
But she wasn’t ready to move in with him yet. Miranda didn’t want to lose her freedom. That would happen soon enough when they were married the following July. And besides, she still had four months left on her lease, which she would have to pay even if she did move in with him. He had brought the matter up again only this morning before he left her apartment, and she had said as much.
This only added to his sour mood.
Miranda hunkered down and kept going. The parking lot and the jetty were in view now. She could see the vague shape of the building that housed the public restrooms sitting at the edge of the asphalt. The parking lot was devoid of cars, as was the road beyond. She had the sudden feeling that she might be the only person left on earth, running through an empty landscape. She wished there were other joggers on the trail or teenagers hanging out drinking beer beyond prying eyes, as they sometimes did out by the jetty. Anyone to break the spell.
“Stop spooking yourself,” she said aloud, mostly to hear the sound of her own voice. “Fifteen more minutes, and that wine is yours.”
That perked her up.
Wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead, she was tempted to stop at the jetty and catch her breath. But that would only delay the end of this torturous lap. Despite her aching legs, she resisted the urge to slow up as she approached the place where the slender wooden pier jutted out into the lake, indicated only by a break in the trees on her right.
She pulled her phone from her pants pocket—glanced at it to see how fast she’d made it to the halfway point. Twelve minutes. Not bad. She wondered if she could complete the other half in ten. That was unlikely. She never made the entire circuit in less than thirty. Miranda returned the phone to her pocket and glanced back up toward the trail.
Just in time to see a dark shape moving at the periphery of her vision, near the gaping hole in the trees that led to the jetty.
Her stomach clenched.
She wasn’t alone on the trail, after all.
Someone was standing almost out of sight on the jetty. Pushed back into the bushes as if they were waiting for her. A prickle of fear wormed up her spine.
Miranda dug her heels into the soft gravel underfoot, almost slipping as she tried to arrest her forward momentum. But not before she caught more movement out of the corner of her eye.
The dark shape moved out from the trees and started toward her, a hoodie tight around his head, obscuring his face.
She opened her mouth to scream, but all that came out was a choked whimper as fear closed her throat.
Then the man moved toward her.
Miranda backed up, about to turn and flee back around the trail, when another shape, smaller than the first, came bounding out from the undergrowth.
A dog.
Now Miranda saw the leash in the man’s hand.
Relief flooded over her. This was no rapist waiting to attack her. It was just a guy out walking his dog.
She almost laughed out loud and stepped aside to let him pass.
The man nodded a silent greeting as they crossed paths while his dog jumped at her, excited to meet another person.
Miranda patted the animal’s head and continued on her way. Thirteen minutes later, she stepped off the trail with more than a little relief and sprinted back across the parking lot and up the stairs to her apartment.
She pulled the key off her wrist and went to open the door. But it didn’t turn. The door was already unlocked. She thought back, wondering if she had forgotten to lock it in her haste to go running. Or maybe her fiancé had come by. He had a key, after all. Except that he was supposed to be in Tacoma trying to get memorabilia from some old rocker she hadn’t heard of who was playing at Fawcett Hall.
His friend worked backstage and had promised to get him in.
Miranda stepped inside and shouted out but received no answer. She glanced around, then decided that the apartment was empty. She must have just forgotten to lock the door when she left, after all.
She closed the door, remembering to engage the deadbolt this time, then moved off into the bedroom, where she stripped off her sweaty clothes. She continued into the bathroom and turned the shower on.
While she waited for the water to heat up, she went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water, drinking half of it before heading back toward the bathroom. On the way, she passed the full-length mirror in her bedroom.
She stopped and studied her naked body. She wasn’t fat. A little soft, maybe, but probably not chubby enough to prevent her wedding dress from fitting. Miranda turned sideways to view herself in profile. Still good. She rubbed a hand over her belly where her fiancé had pinched her. So long as she kept jogging each day, it would be fine.