Free Profile of Evil by Alexa Grace Page B

be thinking of her fear of spiders when it was very likely her very existence was threatened?
    What had the man done with Mrs. Burns? Surely Anthony would report them missing and have the police look for them.
    Sounds gushed in from the floor above her, footsteps walking overhead, voices, and a television. A ticking of metal sounded as a gas furnace kicked on, its flickering flame adding more light to the room. It was then Alison realized she was trapped inside a large wire dog crate, the door secured with a padlock. She'd been locked in a cage from which she might never escape.
    Alison caught herself glancing uneasily over her shoulder. A young girl curled in a fetal position lay in the dog cage next to her, barely breathing, her face swollen and streaked with dried blood. Alison's scream, muffled by the duct tape, vibrated through and tore her throat. "No, no, no," her brain repeated, as her blood turned to ice.
     
    <><><>
     
    The light was fading, creating new shadows and dark patches in the trees. One by one the searchers returned to the makeshift camp, calling it a day.
    Carly's back, aching from bending over the sieve for hours, throbbed in protest as she straightened and stretched. She glanced at Brody and Cameron, who were giving the searchers instructions for the next day. Brody, his white shirt and jeans coated with a fine layer of dirt, was as filthy as she was. The wind had picked up since they arrived, and a coating of dry grit from the barren field covered her hair, clothes, and skin. Carly craved a long, hot shower and food. She'd been starving since their plane landed hours ago.
    She waited for Brody, and then started the trek across the field to the dirt road leading to their vehicle. A hot shower and clean clothes were calling her name. They'd almost reached the sheriff's SUV when one of Carly's feet got tangled with the tree root of a large oak tree. She slammed to the ground with a whoosh as the air burst from her lungs. She felt Brody lifting her, supporting her with a strong arm wrapped around her waist.
    "Are you okay?" he asked, dropping his arm and stepping back to look for injuries.
    "I'm fine," she assured him, embarrassment flooding through her as she dusted herself off.
    "No, you're not; you've got some scratches on your face." With his hand on her elbow, he led her to his vehicle as she struggled to pluck dead leaves out of her hair. Once there, he opened the back and pulled out a large bottle of Purell hand sanitizer and a first aid kit. He scrubbed his hands with the Purell, and handed the bottle to Carly, who did the same.
    "Sheriff, there's no need for first aid. What I need is a hot shower with plenty of soap."
    "Nonsense. Your face is covered with dirt. I can't have my consultant getting an infection," he said with a grin.
    Brody unrolled some gauze and dampened it with a squirt from his bottle of water. He lifted her chin as he gently cleaned a couple of scratches on her cheekbone with the wet gauze.
    Carly's immediate thought was how wonderful it was to look up at a man for a change. She'd been sensitive about her height since a growth spurt in adolescence when she'd shot up to five feet and ten inches. The nickname the mean kids called her stuck, and she was referred to as "Giraffe" throughout her school years. What was it about the cruel teasing one endured in adolescence that shadowed you the rest of your life?
    Brody ripped open an alcohol packet and said, "This is going to sting a bit." His large hand cradled her face and held it gently.
    "I'm a big girl. I can take it," she replied. Brody's usual no-nonsense facial features softened as he tenderly dabbed the scratch.
    It was positively, absolutely the last thing she should be thinking, but Carly had this overwhelming impulse to kiss him, and not on the cheek. The mere touch of his hand sent a warming shiver through her, her body tingling from the contact.
    Once he covered her scratch with Neosporin and a Band-Aid, he dropped his