The Fourth Victim by Tara Taylor Quinn Page B

He’d made a mistake.
    If he could take back that afternoon, he would. He couldn’t. So he had to move forward. He had to meet his obligations.
    Leaves crackled beneath his boots as he walked. He was grateful for the silence around him and craved the right to live as his ancestors had.
    David knew he didn’t have to stay in Chandler. He had it easy. But others weren’t as affluent—or as aware, as acutely aware, of the lives around him. There were those who could remain blind to the degradation. The fear and the poverty. He could not.
    So he walked among century-old trees that had been witness to life’s battles. In woods that had sparked his imagination as a child and his soul as a young man.
    And far back in those woods was a small clearing. He knew. He’d created it himself. Perhaps there was danger in being there.
    Danger for him. And for those he served if anything happened to him.
    He wouldn’t linger. Wouldn’t jeopardize everything that those who depended on him stood to lose. But he was obligated to come here. He’d started something. And he had to see it through.
    He was a man of honor. And like his forefathers, he would go to any lengths to see that he fulfilled his responsibilities. That the good in which he believed was preserved. For his children. And their children. And the children who would come after them.
    Sucking cold air into his lungs, David slowed his pace.
    Timing was critical. He must be patient.
    And life was precious. Sometimes lives were sacrificed for the greater good. His time among the ancient headstones had taught him that lesson well. One or two people could not be allowed to bring down a nation, a society or even threaten the health of one small town.
    Sometimes people had to die.
    But he would always pay his respects. And mourn the losses.
    David started to breathe a little heavier as he neared the clearing. Would she…
    After all these weeks would he finally get to—
    Breaking through the trees, he looked everywhere at once, took in every inch of that eight-by-eight-foot sacred place where he’d shown his sweet Maggie how very much she was loved. Just as Elizabeth had been loved by Jonathan…
    The area was empty. And yet…
    Noticing the red nestled securely among the leaves, David stepped forward and stared.
    A silk rose, it’s long stem tucked under the brush upon which it lay. A red rose. Just like the ones he’d given her.
    There was no note. She’d know the risk. And she’d understand that he couldn’t take her gift. But with the handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, David lifted the rose, then tucked it back in place, facing the opposite direction.
    She’d understand. And be comforted.
    She was still his. He knew that now.
    Because she’d been here.
    Â 
    By 9:30 on Saturday morning, a little less than twenty-four hours after Kelly Chapman had disappeared, Clay had turned over the physical search for Kelly Chapman to local police forces, FBI agents and volunteers in Tennessee, Kentucky and Ohio. Another crew was going over the bike trail again, headed up by Barry. They were expanding into neighboring areas, as well. And all ditches along the roads between the skate track and Tennessee were being scoured by volunteers.
    Barry and JoAnne were coordinating all these efforts, monitoring incoming information and poring over personnel records.
    Before heading back to Ohio, Clay visited Kelly’s Nitro one more time. He didn’t expect to find anything. An FBI forensic team had already processed every inch of the car, inside and out. But he had to look anyway. Twenty-four hours, more than a hundred people on the search, and they hadn’t found so much as a shoelace.
    Sitting in the front seat of her car, gazing out over the secured parking lot where the vehicle would be kept until further notice, he tried to put himself in her place. To imagine her life as a small-town counselor and national