The Fourth Victim by Tara Taylor Quinn

for hours, scraping away my skin in the process, to break the ties that bound me.
    I’d tried to sing earlier. It hadn’t worked.
    â€œBut I don’t need my voice to survive,” I said softly, then swallowed against the dryness.
    At least the shivering had stopped. I imagined that the sun was shining, but I couldn’t see much through the brushat what I assumed was the opening of the cave. I was warm enough, anyway.
    I’d wet myself again, too. Not much comfort in that. No good crying about it, either. But I couldn’t help it.
    It wasn’t likely to happen too much more if I didn’t get out of there and get some water. I was becoming dehydrated.
    No telling what was outside my cave, but at this point, I’d suck dew off the grass.
    A teardrop hit my lips and I touched it with my tongue. Tasting salt.
    Scared to death, I rubbed harder against the rock. Threw my feet faster. And drank from my own tears knowing as I did that they’d be soon gone.
    Â 
    Clay canvassed the immediate vicinity of the location where they’d found Kelly Chapman’s car, while Tennessee state and local police knocked on doors, checked reports and investigated gas stations from the Kentucky-Tennessee state line to Knoxville.
    Either Kelly still had a full tank from the last time she’d used her credit card to pay for gas—which had been Thursday morning—or someone else had fueled up someplace other than Tennessee.
    Or…another alternative. Someone was lying to them.
    Ohio and Kentucky law enforcement were on the hunt, as well.
    There was no sign of Kelly Chapman’s purse or anything that might’ve been in it. Her credit cards hadn’t been used yet.
    And her cell phone no longer pinged. Probably dead.
    Clay prayed that wasn’t an omen.
    He had calls to make, possible suspects to eliminate, but the more pressing concern was to find any physical trail before it got too cold to follow.
    Since her car was in Tennessee he was going on the assumption that his victim was there, as well.
    Detective Jones called just before nine. Clay pulled his phone out of the holder at his belt.
    â€œWe got a ransom call on Kelly’s line.” The detective had arranged for all calls to be forwarded to her home. Her voice was shaking with urgency. “It came in one minute ago. I tried to keep the guy on the line long enough for a trace, but he didn’t give me a chance. He knew what he was doing.”
    â€œWhat’d he say?”
    â€œJust that if we wanted to see Kelly Chapman again, we had twenty-four hours to collect two million dollars.”
    â€œCollect,” Clay said. “He knows she doesn’t have that kind of money—and that enough people care about her to be able to raise it.”
    â€œAnd he’s giving us time to do it. Which tells me he’s serious. He believes he’s going to succeed.”
    â€œWhere does he want us to leave the money?”
    â€œHe didn’t say. Didn’t mention a time that he’ll contact us again, either.”
    â€œWe’ve got nothing to go on. No intelligence at all.”
    â€œLike I said, he knows what he’s doing.”
    â€œWe need to check records on kidnappings in the Midwest and any successful ransom pays over the past ten years,” Clay said.
    â€œI can do that.”
    Normally he wouldn’t want a friend of the victim on his team, but nothing about this case felt normal.
    â€œWe need every situation in which money was successfully collected,” he said. “Whether the victim’s life was spared…or not.”
    â€œI understand.”
    Clay was sure she did. And, hand in the pocket of his slacks, he stared out at the blue horizon.
    â€œI’ll put in a request for the money,” he said after a brief silence. “Get back to me.” Clay clicked his phone shut, blocking any remaining image of the female cop back home in Ohio who knew the woman in