They had to find her first. Damien had to find her first. Before she died…
Before their baby died.
She hugged her abdomen gently, marginally relieved that right now the discomfort she was feeling down there had more to do with a pressing bladder than a sign that anything was wrong with her pregnancy, and she tried to rock in the cramped, airless space, crooning softly as if calming her tiny child.
How long could she hang on to both her bladder and her sanity? Hopefully long enough.
The police had said they’d contact him as soon as they found her, but if they thought there was any way he could sit and wait by a phone while his wife was missing they had him all wrong. Even if they had reason to wonder.
Tactfully they’d asked why it was that a man who’d just married had spent the night in his apartment in town, while his pregnant wife was left somewhere else.
It wasn’t easy to explain—a stupid argument—a misunderstanding. In the light of what had ensued, it all seemed so pointless.
By the time he’d started his own search dawn was lightening the sky, tingeing the few remaining clouds pink in an otherwise grey-blue sky. He set out, confident that if she’d been on the highway someone would have found her by now. She had to be somewhere between the house and the highway.
How the woman had stolen the car, he was too scared to think. The only thing he could hang on to was that she was alive somewhere, alive and waiting to be found. She had to be.
He almost missed the car, only the perfect circles of its tail-lights looking too regular amongst the shrubs along the side of the road. Someone had tried to hide it—why else park it like that?
His heart raced as he pulled up nearby, watching for any indication that anyone was about, but all he could hear was the morning cries of magpies and crows high up in the trees. Until something thumped and thumped again, dull and repetitive and totally at odds with the sounds of a bush morning and hope sprang wild and unfettered in his chest. He heard a cry, muffled and weak, but he heard it all the same and he rushed to the car.
It had to be.
‘Philly,’ he yelled, his face up close to the metal. ‘Is that you? Can you hear me?’
He wasn’t sure if it was a squeal of relief or of delight that he heard in response, but it sure was the best sound he’d ever heard.
She was alive.
He checked the boot but there was no external release mechanism. Without a key he’d need to break it open. Unless… The car was old but there was a chance. He pulled open the driver’s side door and sent up a silent prayer of thanks when he saw the boot release lever. He flicked it up and heard the satisfying click as the catch was released.
A fraction of a second later he pulled open the boot lid and scooped her out of the small space, holding her in his arms and hugging her tightly to him.
Her gown was torn and grease-stained, an old rag hung off her shoulders; she smelled more of car and oil than her familiar apricot scent and tears had left tracks down her grimy face but she’d never looked more beautiful to him than right now.
‘Philly.’ He held her close, his lips brushing her brow as she sobbed gently against him.
‘You found me,’ she said, her voice shuddering on a sob.
‘I was afraid I’d lost you for ever. Are you all right? Did they hurt you?’
‘I’m stiff and sore and cold. But I think I’m okay. A woman took the car; she had a gun. She made me get in the boot and then drove it into the bushes.’
She’d had a gun.
Breath hissed through his teeth. What might have happened? What was he thinking, to lead her into danger like this?
He carried her to his car and sat inside with her cradled on his lap to pass on his warmth. He pulled the smelly rag from her shoulders and replaced it with the mohair rug from his car. She snuggled closer, enjoying the warmth both his body and the rug lent as he pulled out his mobile phone and made a quick call to the police.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked when he’d finished the call.
‘The police found your car. You weren’t in it.’ He didn’t tell her about the driver; there were some things that could wait. And some things that were more important and couldn’t.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘I didn’t mean to cause you so much fuss.’
‘Shh,’ he said. ‘It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have left like that. You were following me, weren’t you?’
‘I had to talk to you. You wouldn’t believe me. I couldn’t let you go, thinking what you did.’
He smoothed her tangled hair with his fingers. ‘I was wrong to think all those things. I was wrong.’