Dylan pulled up to his cabin and skidded to a stop, abruptly cutting the engine to his Harley.

“CHELSEA!” He ran to the broken door and touched the shattered lock briefly. “Shit! Chelsea, where are you?”

He went inside and ran up the stairs, checking in the rooms. Not finding her, he galloped back down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen, fear building in his chest. He saw the open kitchen door and ducked out, glancing briefly around at the shadows.

“Chelsea?” Silence. Maybe she got away. The sense of relief left him feeling weak. His legs were shaking and he leaned back against the cabin, closing his eyes briefly. She and Hank were gone, as was her truck. If Gregory had killed her, he would have had to shoot the dog as well. Even if...

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