Unmissing by Minka Kent
PROLOGUE
LYDIA
Ten Years Ago
“Don’t scream.”
It happens in an airtight instant: the hand clamped over my mouth, the warmth of a man’s body pressed against my back, the low rasp of a masculine voice against my eardrum.
I writhe and squirm, kicking him in the shins and clawing at his arms, but it only makes him squeeze me tighter, forcing any remaining oxygen from my lungs and rendering me powerless.
“Stop,” he says. His breath is hot against my ear as the roaring ocean below muffles his voice.
I contemplate fighting back a second time, freeing myself from these surreal clutches, and making a running leap off the cliff mere yards away. But chances are I’d hit the rocks long before my body reached the turbulent sea. There’d be no surviving a jump like that, and I don’t want to die like this—on a tranquil summer day, my new husband waiting for me at home, and my entire life ahead of me.
An hour ago, Luca ran out to gas up the car and grab groceries for dinner, and I left him a note on the kitchen table saying I was going for a hike and would be back soon. I’d have shot him a text, but as per usual, he forgot his phone.
I imagine my husband coming home, placing two paper grocery sacks on the counter, glancing over my note, and waiting . . .
Given that I hike all the time, Luca won’t think twice. He will, however, begin to wonder when I’m not back by dusk—but that’s hours away.
A lot can happen between now and sundown.
I eye my backpack—one that contains my cell phone and a GPS safety tracker—resting against a nearby tree. So much for being prepared. Twisting again, I thrash and jut my hips against his, but my five-foot-one frame is no match for this man’s Herculean strength. My arms are pinned. I don’t stand a chance—not without help—and we’re miles from any signs of civilization.
Ever since moving to Luca’s hometown of Bent Creek, Oregon, a few months ago, I’ve taken to memorizing these woods from the inside out. Several times a week, I make my way to these trails to be alone with my thoughts; to breathe in the ponderosa pines, earthen air, and ocean brine; and to daydream about the beautiful life we’re building.
Luca wants to open a restaurant with an ocean view. I’m applying to nursing school. One of these days we’ll start a family—two adorable little Colettos, maybe three. But for now, we’re building our dream life one beautiful brick at a time.
If the man behind me thinks I’m going to give that up, he has another think coming.
“My husband will be looking for me.” I force my words through his fingertips, tasting the salt of his sweaty palm. “He knows where I am.”
“Shut up.” His deep voice tone against my ear sends a chilled spray of goose bumps down my neck. “Now, I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. You make a sound, you die. Understand?”
He threatens me with a jerking squeeze.
I nod.
I could scream anyway, but this deep into the woods and this close to the ocean, the odds of anyone hearing me are slim, and I’m not about to test this psychopath.
With one arm still gripping my torso against his, he releases his hand from my face and digs into his pocket.
An older woman went missing in these woods not too long ago. It happens from time to time, given that there are hundreds of square miles of wilderness along hundreds of miles of Pacific coastline. Local authorities wasted no time sending a search party, complete with helicopters and dozens of trained volunteers. They ended up finding her three days later, dehydrated, disoriented, and delirious but very much alive. Turns out she’d merely lost her way. These things happen.
I imagine they’ll send out a search party for me, too.
If I’m lucky, they’ll trace the GPS tracker from my hiker’s backpack to this exact location and work their way from there. Regardless, I’ll find my way home. I’ll do whatever I have to do to survive and make it back to my husband in one piece.
With my heart whooshing in my ears, I steady my breathing and promise myself everything will be okay once I get away from this monster. I know much of these woods like the back of my hand. I could survive days, maybe weeks if I had to. And knowing my husband is waiting for me at home is all the motivation I need to get through whatever it is I’m about to endure.
From the corner of my eye, I spot the man pulling something from his pocket—a white cloth. But before I have time to react, he shoves it over my nose and mouth, his opposite hand gripping the nape of my neck to keep the fabric in place. Fighting back, I hold my breath until it’s no longer possible.
Everything goes black.
When I come to, I’m in a one-room cabin with a single blacked-out window, zip-tied to a chair. Alone . . . waiting . . . but for whom and for how much longer is impossible to know.
I yank against my restraints, a vain attempt at freedom.
Thick, hot tears slide down my cheeks, followed by screams trapped behind my duct-taped mouth.
Squinting, I wait for my eyes to adjust before taking in my surroundings. A bed shoved against a wall, no covers. A camper’s toilet in the corner. An oversized red Igloo cooler by the door, piled with canned food and a case of water.
Whoever did this intends to keep me alive.
I silence my sobs when the jangle of keys outside the door precedes the slick snap of the dead bolt. A moment later, the door swings on creaky hinges, and the man in the entrance is engulfed by a void of black courtesy of a moonless sky. It has to be nearing midnight by now, which means I’ve been here nine, maybe ten hours.
Stepping inside with heavy boots, he secures the door behind him, double-checking the locks before resting a lifeless Coleman lamp on the dirty floor. His movements are deliberate, patient. And he hums a haunting tune under his breath.
It’s only when he turns back that I’m met with a twisted sneer and a chilling gaze so dark it sucks my soul from my marrow.
I flinch, shrinking into the cold metal chair beneath me.
“Ah, good,” he says. “You’re awake.”
CHAPTER ONE
MERRITT
I am—by all accounts—a reasonable woman.
I don’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural. I don’t subscribe to fortune-tellers, palm readers, or psychic mediums. I don’t place stock in afterlife concepts like heaven or hell—which means I certainly don’t imagine a person can come back from the grave.
“You must be Merritt.” A sunken-eyed, cadaverous figure stands on the other side of my front door. The porch light spills shadows across her gaunt cheeks as a wintry breeze cuts between us.
We’ve never met, but I’ve seen enough photos of my husband’s first wife to know the face that haunts my occasional nightmares. I’d know those features anywhere—those expressive, heavy-lidded eyes the color of dirt. Her full, perpetually downturned mouth. The ordinary, everywoman features.
I try to respond, but disbelief robs my voice.
I thought she was dead.
We all did.
“You don’t know me,” she says in a voice so docile it disguises her age. Luca’s first wife would be around thirty by now, but this woman speaks like a child, subdued and hesitant. As she wrings her hands, her deep gaze widens and pleads, like she expects to be turned away. “My name is Lydia Coletto.”