Heather held up her hands, trying to appease Fiona. Trying to make her forget she had just been caught trying to slide a knife out of the utensil drawer. “Please don’t do this.” She hated the squeak in her voice.
Ruthie cried quietly in the corner.
Heather would never be able to overpower a deranged woman with a gun, so her only chance was to talk her way out of this. Dread tightened like a band around her lungs. She hadn’t been able to make any headway so far, but she had to keep trying.
“You’re a writer. You want a great story? Why don’t you write about my mother’s murder?” Shame in the form of heat swept up Heather’s cheeks. Please forgive me, Lord, for using my mother’s tragedy like this.
Fiona lowered her gun a fraction, as if considering.
“I can give you my side of the story. How I grew up Amish and my father left the Amish community heartbroken after my mother was murdered.”
“I told you that would make a great story. I’d probably become famous.” Intrigue softened Fiona’s tone.
“Yes, it’s a story that needs to be told.”
Fiona lifted an eyebrow, skepticism lining her eyes.
“Doesn’t everyone like a good mystery?” Heather hated herself for using her mother like this.
“But, you told me you valued your privacy. You made me feel like a loser for being gossipy with your other houseguests.” Fiona frowned, as if considering something. “I don’t like being made to feel bad about myself. I would have just continued to spy from the barn without your criticism, but I couldn’t get close enough.”
“That was you?” Heather’s hand flew to her mouth. Of course. The police had been checking the restaurant surveillance cameras for possible images of Brian. Fiona could have easily slipped in unnoticed between the cheerleaders who had been there at the same time.
“People have been underestimating me my entire life. I found a ladder behind the barn. Realized I could spy on you from the loft.” Fiona hiked up her chin, obviously proud of herself. “About your mother’s murder...”
Trying her best to sound calm despite having a gun aimed at her, Heather said, “I’ve had time to think about it since we first talked. My mother’s story needs to be told. Maybe your book will lead the police to her killer.”
Something flitted in the depths of Fiona’s eyes. “Exactly. That’s why I started writing true crime. The victim’s story needs to be told.”
“You were never writing a romance?” Heather wasn’t sure why she even asked, perhaps just to keep Fiona talking.
Her captor shrugged. “I dabble. But true crime is my passion.”
“But why did you want to tell Brian’s story and not Jill’s? He wasn’t the victim.”
Fiona froze and her nostrils flared. “Sometimes the story the media portrays isn’t the truth.”
“My mother and Heather’s mother were best friends when Mrs. Miller disappeared,” Ruthie said in a soft, frightened voice from her chair in the corner.
Heather’s heart stopped, uncertain what Fiona would do with that information. Heather never had any intention of sharing her mother’s story—not with Fiona, anyway—she was just trying to talk her way out of this situation. Buy some time.
Fiona turned slowly to look at Ruthie. “Is that so?”
Ruthie’s eyes grew wide. She nodded.
Fiona spun around and grabbed Heather’s ponytail and pushed her toward the front door. She pressed the gun into her spine. “Get up,” she yelled at Ruthie. “We’re leaving.” Ruthie jumped up and knocked over the chair.
Heather’s scalp ached as Fiona shoved her outside, down the stairs and toward her car. Ruthie followed behind.
“Where are we going?” Heather asked.
“We have to get out of here. I know. I watched this place for a long time. Workers might be here soon.” Fiona’s gaze darted around. Her grip tightened on Heather’s ponytail. “Besides—” her tone grew curious “—I want to meet Ruthie’s mom now.”
Fiona reached into her pocket and pulled out the keys and opened the trunk.
A weight pressed down on Heather’s chest and she could already feel the suffocating heat and closeness of the trunk. “Please, please, please, don’t do this.” She made eye contact ever so briefly with a terrified Ruthie.
“Get in the trunk or I’ll kill you and your very helpful friend.” Fiona shrugged, as if taunting her. “Ruthie gets to ride up front and give me directions to her mom’s house.”
Ruthie looked like she was about to pass out.
Realizing she had no option, Heather lifted a shaky leg and stepped into the trunk. Just as she was debating how she could gracefully climb into the space to become Fiona’s hostage, her kidnapper planted both hands on Heather’s back and shoved her in. She landed heavily on a partially sunken spare tire, some half-empty water bottles and a pair of tennis shoes.
Before she had a chance to make one last plea, Fiona slammed the trunk shut, leaving her to suck in stale carpet fumes.
Heather could hear muffled voices as Fiona undoubtedly threatened Ruthie at gunpoint to comply. Car doors slammed. The engine started. Desperation and exhaust fumes made Heather dizzy, yet she pushed with all her might on the trunk lid. It didn’t budge. Heather didn’t know a lot about cars, but she suspected this old beater was manufactured before safety experts put releases inside the trunk.
Panic made it difficult to think. Breathe. In through the nose, hold for three, out through the mouth.
Dear Lord, help me. Help me and Ruthie.
* * *
The cell phone sitting on the corner of Zach’s desk vibrated. He considered letting it go to voice mail as he tried to catch up on a mountain of work, but something made him pick it up.
“Marshal Walker?” came the breathless voice over the phone line. “This is Sloppy Sam.”
Zach pushed back in his chair and it bounced off the wall as he stood. Dread coursed through him. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you still in Quail Hollow?”
“No, I’m back at my office in Buffalo. What’s going on?”
“I showed up at the bed-and-breakfast to tie up a few loose ends and the back door was open and a kitchen chair was knocked over. Miss Miller’s trunk was open with groceries inside. Seemed like someone left in a hurry. I wanted to make sure Miss Miller was okay. I thought if you were still in town, maybe she was with you.”
“No, she’s not.” Heart beating wildly in his chest, he swallowed hard. “I need you to hang up and call the sheriff immediately. Tell him what you just told me.”
“Yah, I will.” Sloppy Sam ended the call.
Zach stared at his phone as panic crashed into him. He drew in a deep breath, knowing he had to keep calm. He dialed Heather’s number and waited. Her cheerful voice sounded on the voice mail. He waited and left a message. “I need to make sure you’re okay. Call me as soon as you get this message. Thanks.”
Zach pushed back his chair and snagged his jacket from the coatrack in the corner of his office. Shoving his arms into his jacket, he ran to the elevator. He found himself praying for Heather’s safety.
He had to get to Quail Hollow. Make sure she was okay.
When he got down to the parking lot and into his brand-new truck, he called Deputy Gates to make sure Sam had called it in. At least now Zach knew someone local was looking into it.
“Call me if you get any leads. I’m leaving from Buffalo for Quail Hollow now. I should be there in an hour.”
“We’ll find out what’s going on,” the deputy reassured him.
As Zach tore out of the parking lot, he couldn’t imagine what had happened. He had thought the danger had passed once Fox was found dead.
He slowed at a red light, then pounded on the steering wheel. “Come on. Come on. Come on.” He glanced both ways, and once it was clear, he blew through the light.
* * *
Fiona hadn’t driven far when the car bobbled over an uneven road, making every contact point between Heather’s body and the trunk of the car ache.
The car came to a stop. Heather strained to listen over her heavy breathing. She knew the trunk wasn’t airtight, but the darkness and the stale smell did nothing to alleviate her fears.
The engine cut off. A door slammed. Footsteps.
Please open the trunk. Please open the trunk. Please open the truck.
Anxiety made her heart race.
The footsteps grew more distant and Heather nearly cried when she was abandoned in the trunk with something sharp digging into her side.
Help me, dear Lord. Help me.
Heather wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard voices. One was Fiona’s. Her pulse spiked when she recognized the other: Maryann’s.
Where was Ruthie?
“We don’t have many plants left. Our peak season is in the spring. All the mums are picked over,” Maryann said.
“That’s okay.” Fiona’s voice grew closer. “I had something else in mind.”
“Oh...” Maryann sounded confused, but not frightened.
Please leave her out of this. Please, please...
The sound of metal scraping—a key inserted into the trunk lock—didn’t provide the sweet relief she had hoped for. Instead she feared for what Fiona would do to Maryann once she saw Heather in the trunk. She’d be a witness who needed to be eliminated.
The crack of light grew larger. The first thing Heather saw was Maryann’s horrified face. The Amish woman covered her mouth with her hands. “Heather...”
Ruthie stood nearby. Terror making her mute.
“Ah, yes, sweet Heather. Not exactly what you were expecting.” Fiona was talking to Maryann, but she had a gun trained on Heather.
“Oh, my. What’s going on?” Maryann backed up and hit her heel on the door of the greenhouse. She turned to her daughter. “Ruthie, what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Mem” was all she could say.
Heather blinked against the bright light after being held in the darkness of the trunk. Fiona had pulled the car around to the back of the greenhouse, where it would be hidden from those searching for it from the street. If anyone was searching for it.
Ruthie stood clasping her hands with silent tears falling down her cheeks.
“Leave Maryann out of this,” Heather said, fully realizing she wasn’t in a position to make demands.
Immediately Heather figured she had said the wrong thing. Fiona would do exactly the opposite of what Heather wanted her to do.
“I need Maryann for my story. You know, the one you promised me about your mother.”
Maryann’s brow furrowed as she struggled to comprehend the situation.
“Get out.” Fiona pointed the gun at Heather. “And you two,” she said to Maryann and Ruthie, “don’t go anywhere.”
Heather braced her hands on the edge of the trunk and dragged herself out. The ground beneath her swayed. Her feet tingled from the awkward position she had been forced to take in the trunk. She blinked, trying to orient herself. Despite the overcast day, going from the black of the trunk to the light of day felt like tiny pinpricks in her eyes.
“Quit rutsching,” Fiona said when Heather tried to squirm out of reach. “Did I say that right? Quit squirming, right? I figure if I can sprinkle some Pennsylvania Dutch throughout the book it will make it more authentic. I hear Amish books are big sellers. I had done a little research before coming to Quail Hollow, but I never realized it would come in handy so soon.”
“I can help you with that,” Heather said in a desperate attempt to appeal to this crazed young woman. “I spoke Pennsylvania Dutch for the first six years of my life. You don’t need them.”
Fiona gave her a strange look. “Get inside. All of you.” Maryann started walking toward the front of the house when Fiona yelled, “No, the back door.”
Maryann led the way, then Ruthie, Heather, followed by a gun-toting Fiona.
Fiona made them sit down at the kitchen table. “If anyone thinks they’re going to be a hero, I’ll shoot Maryann first.” She frowned, a feigned sympathetic gesture that came off as garish. “You all can’t get away.”
Fiona reached into the bag strapped over her shoulder and pulled out a yellow legal pad. “I prefer to work on my laptop, but I know electricity can be scarce out here.” Her words held an air of disgust.
Fiona threw the legal pad on the table. “I wish I had more time to prepare for this interview, but I’m good at working on the fly.” She sounded almost gleeful. “Answer the questions honestly.” She lifted her eyebrows. “And don’t worry. You can help one another if you don’t know the answers.”
“You can’t expect us to answer questions under duress.” Heather pushed back from the table. “Why don’t you put the gun away and we can chat calmly?”
Fiona aimed the gun at Heather. “You’re trying to trick me.”
Heather squared her shoulders. She was tired of dealing with bullies. “You can’t expect us to answer questions while you’re pointing a gun at us.” She stood and kept moving so that Fiona had to turn away from Maryann and Ruthie. Fiona’s rage grew as she tracked a defiant Heather into the front room. Heather had counted on it. She glanced over Fiona’s shoulder at her dear Amish friends. She gave them a subtle nod and mouthed the word run.
In her attempt to flee, Maryann knocked Heather’s chair over and it bounced off the floor.
Fiona spun around. Heather grabbed a glass pitcher off a shelf and brought it down over Fiona’s head. The woman crumpled to the floor and her gun clattered across the hardwood.
Blood pulsing in her ears, Heather stepped over Fiona to grab the gun. At the same time she yelled to Maryann and Ruthie, “Run! Get out!” When Ruthie paused, Heather yelled, “Go, now! Call for help.”
The Amish woman she had grown to love like a mother moved toward the door, her long skirt fluttering around her legs. Ruthie followed. Heather bent for the gun when Fiona dived at her legs, taking her down. Heather landed on her shoulder with an oomph. Twisting, she stretched for the gun while Fiona clawed at her legs.
The tips of Heather’s fingers brushed against the cool metal.
A scream tore from Fiona’s throat as Heather stretched with everything she had to gain control of the gun. If she didn’t get the gun, Fiona would kill her for sure.