Page 21 of Girl Long Gone

What the hell was he missing? Built-in bookshelves dominated one wall, filled to the brim with leather-bound editions of some pretentious bullshit he’d never read. Not like he could have if he wanted; most of the spines boasted French titles. His gaze scanned the collection and stopped on a plain white spine smothered between the obnoxious patterns.

Connor lifted the book from its spot. Woodworking for Beginners. The stain-splattered cover boasted a well-worn reference. He lifted his gaze and took in the rest of the room. Made more sense why Gabriel’s house was filled with warm wood tones and carved bric-a-brac and not the clean lines and harsh metals he’d expected of the man.

Putting the book back on the shelf, Connor’s gaze floated to two pictures in wooden frames. One photograph was of a young woman with a book—much like the ones on the shelf—opened and covering the bottom half of her face. Her mouth wasn’t shown, but there was no denying the smile in her blue eyes or the obnoxious French writing scrawled over the cover of the book.

The second picture was of a young Gabriel with a wide grin and black tie draped around a white button-down shirt with his arms wrapped around the waist of a young woman. A curtain of dark, curly hair rained over her face as she twisted away from him, but there was no denying the playful grin beaming from her.

The clinking of glass alerted him to someone behind him. He swiveled, and ice ran through his veins.

Gabriel lingered at a drink cart set up beside the lone brown leather chair on the other side of the desk. He had the lip of a crystal decanter pressed against a short glass. Amber liquid flowed from one container to the other. Gabriel waited until his glass was filled before lifting his gaze to Connor. “I don’t see how a picture from my youth can assist you right now, Detective.”

Connor returned his focus to the smiling boy in the picture once more before placing it back where he’d found it. “I was surprised to find a picture of you from—what was this—prom? Not many grown men keep pictures like this around the house.”

Gabriel shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “It reminds me of a simpler time.”

“Who’s the girl?” Connor faced Gabriel and prayed for enough self-control to not hurl himself over the desk and plant his fist into the man’s smug face.

“I don’t remember.” Gabriel rounded the chair and sat, crossing an ankle over his thigh as he settled back against the cushion.

A soft shimmer of light in the backyard caught Connor’s attention. A reflection of some kind. But what was out there? He rushed forward and pressed his nose against the smooth glass. Sonofabitch. Of course Gabriel wouldn’t keep women chained up in his home—he’d hide them behind a wrought- iron fence. “Sanders! He’s got a shed in the backyard. Did you check it out?”

Gabriel took another sip of his drink and shifted in the chair.

“No. Let’s go.”

He ran to meet her by the sliding glass door that led to the small backyard then yanked open the door and ran into the night. The rain pounded down harder than before, and his sneakers sloshed in puddles of water pooling in the soggy grass.

“Slow down,” Sanders called from behind him. “We need to clear it before we burst in there to find God knows what. He could have an accomplice inside.”

Her words had him skidding through the slippery yard. Shit. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Gabriel had an airtight alibi for the night Monica went missing, but the idea someone else could have taken her to help Gabriel hadn’t even entered his mind.

Slowing his pace, he grabbed the gun resting at his hip. He stopped in front of the small shed, gun drawn and ready. Sanders hurried to the other side of the door, weapon drawn. They locked gazes, and he nodded as she counted down from three.

His heart beat faster with every second.

Three, two, one.

Connor yanked open the door with one hand and trained his weapon into the dark, dusty shed with the other. Sanders swung around to his side. Nothing moved, no sound greeted them but the echo of raindrops on the tin roof. Shadows of boxes, crates, and garden tools lined the walls. He flipped a switch and illuminated the space. They’d check everything in here more closely, but no way Monica was inside.

Rage boiled through him, and he kicked a stack of boxes. The enclosed space mocked him, and his ragged breaths made his pulse spike.

Where the hell was she? She had to be here. He stepped back outside, letting the rain wash over him and take away the heat licking through his muscles. He faced the window he’d looked out moments before.

Bathed in the light of the room, Gabriel stood, glass lifted in the air in mock salute. His fucking smirk morphed into a grin that melted into laughter.

10

The scent of blood, sweat, and death tickled the inside of Gabriel’s nostrils and made his stomach muscles quiver. Accomplishment puffed his chest. He swiped the back of his gloved hand across his moist brow and tried not to cringe at the rough cuts he’d been forced to make. He yearned to create art, something he could preserve and have pride in. Not something he had to rush because he needed to strike the little mouse and the asshole cop. After the detective found nothing at his house earlier, this would push him over the edge.

Pressure pressed against his lungs. This new game might be exciting, but the rules were somewhat muddled. He’d never had to worry about throwing off the scent of the fucking bloodhounds nipping at his heels. If the mouse and the cop wanted to raise the stakes, he’d raise them so high their heads would spin from the altitude.

But he’d needed to act fast, which meant he’d been forced to be messy.

Poor Hayley deserved better. At least he could keep a part of her with him...just like the rest of them.

Forcing himself to glance down at the marred body on the metal slab dominating the basement of his workshop, Gabriel sighed and tucked a piece of limp hair behind her ear. He reached across her lifeless form and grabbed a white towel he’d stacked on the end of the table. Blood dripped from the saw in his hand. Thick scarlet beads raced along the blade’s serrated edge toward the cheap plastic poncho he’d pulled over the dress shirt he’d worn to dinner.

He hated this tool. Hated the jagged lines it made and the way it spoiled the beauty of his precious pet.