“Dylan said, as he surveyed the bodies of his dogs, lying in a heap next to the side gate. Indentions from boot prints in the mud next to the dogs told the story. “Nicky’s doing?” Quentin asked. “Of course, it was his doing.” Dylan ran a hand through his hair. He had to keep it together. He could only imagine how frightened she must be now. “He’s mad. Surely, he realizes he’s courting death.” “I have to hope that’s exactly why he’s doing it,” Dylan said, stony resolve making his voice hard. “To ...use her for leverage? And if he isn’t?” “Then we need to find her fast. He’ll kill her.” Dylan fought the panic that rose in his throat. Calm. He must be deliberate and calm. The moment Dylan had woken at dusk, he’d known she was gone. He smelled engine oil and leather inside the house—but so far outside, only the dogs’ blood. “But where?” Quentin asked, raising his stark gaze to Dylan’s. “I know where. To hell.” * * * * * Emmy fought the rising terror that threatened to choke her.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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