Jill Nelson - Calculated Revenge

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I was the big sister, the protector.” Bitter regret whitewashed her pale cheeks. “It was my birthday. I wanted to have some fun, and my fun cost my sister her life. What a selfish little fool!”

“Aww, Laney.” Noah reached a hand across the desk, though it couldn’t go far enough to touch her. “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard stories like that from family members looking for someone to blame. Quite often themselves. You were just a kid being a kid.”

Laney’s hard expression shattered, and she sobbed. Tears flowed down her face and dripped off her chin. “I hope—” she hiccupped “—one day…I can believe that.”

Blinking away the sting behind his eyes, Noah surged to his feet and grabbed a tissue from the box on his credenza. He came around his desk and sat in the guest chair beside her. She took the tissue and scrubbed as if she would wipe away memories.

“I hope you do take those words to heart. They’re real and true.” Noah brushed the back of her hand with his fingertips.

writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com. She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children who have settled nearby.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive him, so that your Father in Heaven may forgive you your sins.

—Mark 11:25

To the heroic men and women, both civilian and law enforcement, who devote their time and energy to finding the lost and stolen little ones. May their hearts be wise, their arms be strong, and their ears be open to guidance from the supernatural God who loves the children better than any natural parent.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

The grimy backpack rested abandoned against the playground fence. Laney Thompson’s eyes riveted on the schoolbag, but her feet stuck to the gravel near the swings. What was the matter with her? The students had rushed less than a minute ago into the elementary school building after noon recess. One of them must have forgotten the bag. Simple explanation. Then why did her skin pebble as if she stood on this Minnesota playground in mid-January, rather than the balmy end of May?

A warm breeze puffed a curtain of light brown hair in front of her face, and she blinked, breaking the hold of the strange paralysis. Laney brushed the hair aside and moved forward. Standing in front of the pack, she curled her hands into fists. Come on, pick it up. But her arms balked at the command to reach for the pack’s frayed top strap.

Dread pummeled her.

She studied the object. Mildew stains spattered the canvas, and the original color was barely discernable as green. Whoever owned this schoolbag had been mighty careless with it or was too poor to afford a new one. Several students who fit either description passed through her mind.

All she needed to do was check inside for papers identifying the owner. The plumpness of the pack suggested that there ought to be plenty of clues inside. She reached for the strap, then froze, breath sawing in her lungs. Blackness trimmed her vision.

Laney Thompson, this is no time for a panic attack. You left those behind. Remember?

Yes, she remembered the years of counseling. Vividly. Then the determined struggle to put the past behind her and get a college education—an effort prolonged and complicated by a mistake of a marriage and the birth of a beautiful daughter. But at twenty-eight she now had her teaching degree. She was what she had always dreamed of being—a protector and guide to the young. Perhaps to atone for…

Laney swallowed and rubbed damp palms against her tan slacks. She snatched up the pack. A side seam gave way, and the corner of a notebook stuck out. The bag was in worse shape than she’d realized. Laney squatted and set the pack on new spring grass. A smell like rancid musk wafted from the canvas. Her heart rattled against her ribs. Trembling fingers worked the zipper and another seam parted as she yanked the notebook out.

She had to know who owned this schoolbag.

Laney flipped open a yellowed page, and found a first name printed in ragged block letters in the top right corner. For breathless seconds, her mind denied what she saw. Then the horror—and the guilt—deluged her, as suffocating as the day of Laney’s tenth birthday. The day the nightmare began.

Grace Thompson. The name mocked her from the page.

This backpack had belonged to her eight-year-old sister. At least, that’s how old Gracie had been the day she disappeared on her way home from school. Alone. Eighteen years ago.

That terrible smell now held no mystery. Decay. She gagged. The pack had come from the unknown tomb where Gracie’s abductor had stashed her body. Her killer had put the bag here on purpose. He wanted Laney to find it. To know he was nearby.

She scooted backward, wails ripping through her mind, but bottled in her chest. She tumbled onto her side and gripped her legs in a fetal position. The screams burst free.

A sliver of her mind continued to churn questions. Was he watching? Enjoying her breakdown? Why now? What did he want? Or who?

Briana!

A vision of her daughter’s face sobered her like a plunge in a glacial lake. She sat up stiff. How could this mean anything else? Briana was newly eight years old. Just like Gracie.

Excited voices that had been there, but unregistered, reached her ears. The aide from the music department stuck his face in hers. “Are you all right?”

She surged to her feet, strong-arming him aside. “My daughter. I have to go!”

Astonished faces melted away before her as she charged between approaching people. Why couldn’t she move faster than the speed of sludge? Laney yanked open the door and raced up a hallway floored in wax-coated linoleum and walls covered with bulletin boards and glass display cases. Familiar scents pumped through her nostrils—white-board markers, sweaty gym shoes stored in lockers. She rounded a corner and dodged around a line of kindergarteners and their teacher heading for the restrooms. Squeaks of surprise followed her into the first classroom on the left.

Briana’s teacher and Laney’s best friend, Ellen Kline, stood at the head of the third grade classroom. She stopped mid-sentence and stared at Laney. “What’s going on?”

“Mommy!” A little girl’s voice drew Laney’s attention.

“Sweetie, you’re okay!” She ran to her daughter at her desk and hugged her tight. At the smell of strawberry shampoo in soft, brown pigtails, she exhaled a thankful prayer.