After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 181

Her mouth arid, her muscles tense, her damned ankle throbbing, she crawled up onto the trough and then through the supports to a spot where she finally swung her body over the half wall separating the area for the animals from the interior of the structure. She landed lightly, felt another splintering shot of pain, then froze to get her bearings.

Move it! Keep going! Find Trent!

The horses were boxed in a line of stalls that ran down a long corridor. On the far end was the silo, on the opposite wall another wide door on rollers to allow equipment to be driven inside. In between, opposite from the stalls, were a series of small rooms that housed grain, tack, and barnyard equipment. She’d seen tools hung on the bare walls, and in the very center a ladder that led up to the hayloft and down lower, to the same level as the area where the cattle entered and fed, the space she’d just passed through.

So where was her husband?

She checked her phone.

Nothing.

Damn.

She couldn’t risk calling out, and didn’t want to take a chance at being shot, either by Trent or whoever else was within the building. Fortunately there was a bit of light filtering in through the windows. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out shapes and shadows caught in the feeble illumination. Because there were few interior walls, Cassie was able to see. A little.

And so can anyone else.

If she could just find Trent! Holding her breath, she listened hard and hoped she might hear the sound of a boot on the floorboards or a soft moan, but heard nothing but the sough of the wind and the shuffle of nervous hooves in straw.

She wished she had the nerve to turn on a light, the guts to whisper to Trent, but she knew instinctively to stay as quiet as she could and hope that the noise from the animals would cover her own footsteps and breathing.

Did she hear the distant wail of sirens?

Oh, please!

She prayed the police were on their way.

She moved a little closer to the equipment area.

In the edge of her peripheral vision, she thought she saw movement. Her heart leapt to her throat. She spun, her gun leveled. Don’t shoot. It could be Trent. Or some other innocent.

But the area was empty.

Maybe it was the dog? Or a barn cat?

Or perhaps nothing. Your effin’ imagination.

Yet, her senses were on alert, her ears cocked and listening, her eyes scanning the shadowy interior, her nerves strung tight as bowstrings as she inched along the hallway. Horses snorted as she passed. One, startled, whinnied and the air snapped with an electricity.

Damn it, Trent, where are you? Give me a sign.

And Hud? Where’s the damned dog?

Wouldn’t Hud be with Trent?

Crouching low, she inched along the wall, nearly called out Trent’s name in a whisper when she saw another movement from the corner of her eye.

Whirling, she expected the image to have disappeared, the phantom to have vanished, a figment of her wild imagination.

But she was wrong.

Dead wrong.

Crouching in the corner, glaring at her with hateful eyes that caught the weakest light was a woman.

What?

Cassie nearly screamed.

Oh. Jesus.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her heart in her throat as the features, in the dark, came into view. Dark hair, wide eyes, arched cheeks, but all distorted in the gloom. Dear God, it was a shadowy image of herself, a twin.

She bit back a scream.

Realized the woman had a gun trained on her.

In a second she would pull the trigger and take off the mask and—no! Her eyes widened as she stared at the woman staring back at her. Her own gun was raised and shaking in her hands. And . . . and the assailant’s pistol was raised and shivering and . . . She blinked. And fired, just as she noticed the clothes and the expression on the terrified woman’s features were identical to her own before the woman shattered into a million pieces.

The roar of gunfire sent the horses screaming and kicking. Cassie’s own heart nearly stopped as she was sprayed with bits of glass, the mirror that had been propped into the corner decimated.

She hadn’t come upon a murderous assailant. No! She’d shot at her own damned, shuddering, gun-toting reflection. Oh, God, she was losing it! And not by inches, but miles. Her headache pounded, threatening to consume her, and her ankle wasn’t getting any better. She needed to find Trent, get the hell out of the barn and make tracks. Let the police sort out whatever it was that had gone on here. She let out a breath slowly. She had to find Trent and get the hell out of here. Now she was jumping at shadows and . . . and . . .