Page 25 of Fallen Creed

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OK.

And then there were the three lines from the unidentified phone number that had started this panic. Short and simple:

TEXT ME.

WE CAN HELP EACH OTHER.

I’M REALLY SCARED.

—21—

Creed tried to ignore the exhaustion creeping into his muscles and the fog from invading his brain. He was glad to be back inside his Jeep with Grace resting. Maggie sat beside him, updating Pakula. She told Creed that she had ordered pizza to be delivered to their hotel. But all Creed could think about was getting to his hotel room and lying on the floor to stretch out his aching back, then put some ice on it.

The two-day drive from the Florida Panhandle to the middle of Nebraska—1700 miles in twenty-six hours—should have been a breeze. He’d made longer trips in less time, stopping only to give his dog a break. Usually all he needed was a thermos of coffee and a cooler filled with Hannah’s sandwiches. But this was something he had never experienced.

The worst part of this annoying and uncharacteristic fatigue was that Maggie noticed.

Oh sure, they were beyond trying to create or change themselves into date material. By now, they knew each other’s vulnerabilities and weaknesses. For some reason, it was difficult to reveal these new limitations to Maggie. Maybe he wasn’t ready to accept them himself. They were temporary. They had to be. Dr. Avelyn Parker, who was their K9 CrimeScents’ veterinarian, had done his blood labs just last week. The numbers came back great.

In June, a serial killer had shot Creed and left him in a secluded part of Blackwater River State Forest. Then the madman set the forest on fire. The man had also plastered a half dozen fentanyl patches on Creed’s arms. If it hadn’t been for Brodie, he would have died from an overdose.

The broken ribs had mended. The scrapes and cuts were gone. But his back was taking longer to heal. Contusion was a fancy way to say he’d bruised his lower back. Not surprising when being dragged through a forest and bouncing over fallen branches, rocks, and tree roots. He knew he was lucky it was only bruised. The lingering brain fog took longer, as did shaking off the effects of the overdose.

Hannah insisted he needed more time off. That he pushed himself too hard.

“Rye, a week is not enough,” she’d told him. “You need to take some real time off. Just rest a bit,” is how she said it. “Go spend some time with Maggie.”

He didn’t want to remind Hannah that Maggie hadn’t invited him. He’d never been to her home. She had a brother and a best friend she’d never introduced. He hadn’t even met her dogs.

Also, Creed couldn’t wrap his mind around what taking time off would look like. Work and being around the dogs had always been his escape, his purpose, his sanity.

He glanced at the Jeep’s GPS. Eight more miles to the hotel. It was feeling like an eternity. He told Nora Spencer that he would be back in the morning. He’d let Grace lead him into the field. Hopefully, they wouldn’t find Libby Holmes had drowned herself in the river.

Creed rubbed his hand over his jaw when he wanted to dig the sandpaper out of his eyes. Then he noticed Maggie watching him. She was pretending to read her phone, but she hadn’t tapped or scrolled for a while.

It had been months since they’d seen each other, but it never felt awkward. Until now. It was probably just the fatigue. Maybe he was thinking about it too much. Relationships weren’t something he gave much thought to or tried to evaluate. That is until Jason brought it to his attention.

One of his handlers, Jason Seaver, had started a new relationship with a gorgeous nurse. Creed could remember the first time he’d met the veteran. Newly discharged and getting used to half his arm gone below the elbow, Jason had a huge chip on his shoulder. He’d come a long way, and although it was great to see him giddy in love, it was also annoying.

“You doing okay?” Maggie finally asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Just a little tired,” he admitted. It was silly to pretend otherwise, especially with Maggie. She would know. “How does Libby Holmes fit in?” He changed the subject. Besides, it’d do him good to concentrate on something else than where his mind was wandering.

“You mean with the woman in the ditch?”

“With any of it. Pakula’s trafficking idea.”

“I’m not sure that she does.”

“But you suspect she’s not who she claims to be, or you wouldn’t have taken DNA samples,” Creed said, referring to the plastic evidence bags she’d filled with items from Libby’s bathroom.

“In some ways, she fits the profile of a trafficking victim. She’s here in the middle of a state where she apparently doesn’t have friends or family. No one knows much about her. She takes off after another victim’s been murdered.”

“Wait. You think she knew about it already?”

“I don’t know. Libby Holmes’ disappearance might have nothing to do with the body in the ditch. Human traffickers rarely kill their product. Some of these guys started out as drug runners or dealers. Then they realized they could only sell drugs once. A person can be sold over and over.”

She checked her phone one last time, then slid it into her jacket pocket, crossed her arms over her chest as if bracing for something. The text she had just read left a smile. She said, “Pakula keeps reminding me there’s a snowstorm coming. Asking if I have a coat. Did I bring boots? He’s like a mother hen sometimes. Did you bring a coat? Boots?”