Her Stolen Son by Rita Herron Page B

at Rice’s apartment.
    The phone jangled and she clenched her jaw, praying it was the kidnapper, not another reporter. Or hopefully it was Colt with information. It trilled another time, and she raced over and glanced at the caller ID box.
    Unknown.
    She dropped her head into her hands and stifled a scream. It was probably a salesman.
    Then again, it might be the man who’d stolen her son.
    Nerves gathered in her stomach as she grabbed the handset. “Hello.”
    â€œMommy!”
    Serena’s breath caught at the sound of her son’s tiny voice. “Petey?”
    â€œMommy, help,” Petey cried. “Please come and get me!”
    She tightened her grip on the phone. “Where are you, honey? Are you all right?”
    â€œMommy…”
    Footsteps pounded, then a loud bellow. “Give me that phone, kid.”
    â€œPetey, where are you, honey? Tell me, baby—”
    Petey wailed, and she realized the man had wrenched the phone from him.
    â€œWho is this?” Serena shouted. “What have you done to my son?”
    The sound of Petey’s cry reverberated over the line, and Serena’s heart shattered.
    â€œPlease,” she begged, “I’ll pay you, give you whatever you want, just bring my son back.”
    But the phone went dead in her hands.
    Serena sank onto the couch in despair. If the kidnapper wanted money, why hadn’t he answered her?
    Unless he’d never intended to ask for ransom money or bring Petey back at all…

Chapter Nine
    Could Rice have faked his own death?
    Once the idea wiggled its way into Colt’s brain, it wouldn’t leave. If Rice were alive, it would explain why the police hadn’t found a body.
    Other details ticked through his mind. Rice had been in Serena’s house so he could have stolen her underwear, and the kitchen knife, and lifted prints from a cup or glass to plant at his house. He also could have planted those emails on her phone.
    But why leave his shoes here to be found?
    Because he’d assumed the police had already processed the scene and wouldn’t return. His motive for the kidnapping was problematic, but the possibility of a ransom call still existed.
    But the amount of blood on the floor and sheets perplexed him. Perhaps Rice had stored up blood to stage the scene. Or he could have stolen a few pints from a blood bank.
    If so, the blood wouldn’t have matched his own.
    He needed to ask the sheriff to verify that the bloodtype and DNA collected at the crime scene matched Rice’s.
    Energized by his theory, he searched the closet again, dropping to the floor to make sure he hadn’t hidden something beneath the carpet, behind a loose board, or the top shelf.
    Nothing.
    One last room. The bathroom.
    The bathroom cabinet contained the usual toiletries. Soap. Shaving cream. Toothpaste. Shampoo.
    A used razor and a box of hair dye in the trash caught his eye. He examined the package—the color was sandy blonde.
    In earlier photos, Rice’s hair had been darker, almost black.
    If Rice had faked his own death, he’d most likely alter his appearance so no one would recognize him. Colt dropped to his knees and dug through the trash again, but barring a Q-tip and a tissue, he found nothing. Just as he was about to stand, he spotted a loose tile behind the back of the toilet.
    He removed his pocketknife from his pocket, flipped it open and pried the tile loose. A second one came free, revealing a small hole carved in the wall. Colt dug around until his fingers closed around a small pad.
    His heart jackhammered. No, not just a pad, but a ledger. Maybe the details inside would lead to Rice and his plans.
    Columns of dates and what resembled GPS coordinates lined the pages. Another column was filledwith numbers and letters, but he couldn’t discern their significance.
    The notations were obviously entered in some kind of code.
    Anxious to get the ledger to Ben to decipher, he jammed