Kimberly Belle - Three Days Missing - A nail-biting psychological thriller with a killer twist!

I shake my head, then nod, then shake my head again. I am an only child, an orphan, and the people I have left to call are not even remotely local. High school friends from back home, a tiny town at the top end of Tennessee. Lucas, my brother in every way but blood. Izzy—the only Atlanta friend I kept from my life Before Divorce—sailing the British Virgin Islands with her latest lover, Tristan or Tanner or some other pompous T-name. The only one left is Andrew.

Not going to happen.

I drop my cell onto the counter with a clatter and bolt to the back door. The key hook next to the alarm pad is empty. I swipe a hand across it just to be sure. No keys. I flip on the lights and search the floor, kicking away Ethan’s schoolbags, the jacket he can never remember to hang up, a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. Not there, either.

Where are they?

Another wave of panic rolls in, flickering under my scalp like a swarm of angry mosquitoes. I need to be in Dahlonega. I need to be out there in the woods, screaming Ethan’s name until my throat is raw. I need to help them find my son. No—I need to somehow figure out a way to travel back in time to yesterday morning, so I could floor the gas and whiz right past the turnoff for school and none of this would have ever happened. Ethan would be safe and snoring upstairs in his bed. I would be on the other side of the wall, lurching from my mattress with a gasp, tangled in sweaty sheets, limp with relief that it was only an awful, terrifying nightmare.

I whirl around, knocking into the cop’s massive body, solid as a brick wall. He edges back to let me pass, saying something that hits my frenzied thoughts like elevator Muzak—background noise where not a single note registers.

I need to find my keys. Think, dammit.

Back in the kitchen, I fumble through my purse, flinging the contents on the counter. My wallet, a ridiculous amount of crumpled-up receipts, a handful of mints, but no keys.

The cop is still talking, something about slowing down, sitting down, calming down, and I can’t think with him here. I shove my hands in my hair and squeeze my eyes closed, trying to block out his voice, trying to remember where I left the damn things. I came in last night, dropped my purse and phone on the counter, poured a glass of wine and—I shove past the cop and yank on the refrigerator handle and hallelujah, the jumble of silver metal, glinting under a golden Whirlpool light.

I grab for my keys, but I’m not fast enough. A long arm reaches around me, a giant fist closing around them before mine can get there.

I slam the door and pivot around, and suddenly it’s all too much. The fear, the shock, the worry, combined with my exhaustion and the key-snatching cop, the fact that there’s nobody here but me. The tears come in a well of frustration and helplessness and maybe a tiny bit of self-pity.

The cop’s shoulders soften, and he drops my keys into his pants pocket. “Go get dressed. Make sure whatever you put on is comfortable, and wear sneakers. Pack an overnight bag with the basics—change of clothes, your toothbrush, any toiletries you need. Pack one for Ethan, too, and toss in any toys or stuffed animals he might want for when we find him.” He plucks my cell phone off the counter, waves it in the air by his ear. “Where’s the charger for this thing?”

I’m too shocked to answer with anything but, “Upstairs, I think.”

“Pack it, too. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

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