Bobby POV

I didn't blame Alex for taking out Taggart.

In fact, I was pretty damn impressed with the punch.

But I hated that she'd hurt her hand again. Her middle knuckle had connected with his nose and the hard cartilage there had caused her finger to swell.

And I was only mildly disappointed that I hadn't gotten to do the deed myself.

The guard hadn't cared a bit. He'd actually patted Alex on the back and offered her an ice pack.

"We need to get Ross on this cell number," Alex said as she pulled out of the visitors' parking lot of the prison. "Find out who it's registered to and get the logs pulled."

"We will," I said, but then I picked up her hand from where it rested on her leg and gently prodded the knuckles. "Do we need to swing by the morgue for an x-ray?"

"Liz is not our personal physician," she reminded me, although she did offer me a smirk. "And no, there's no need. He was a marshmallow."

"Alex, you don't always have to be so tough," I said quietly as I kissed her hand and then put it back on her leg.

"There's no time for anything else right now," she replied. She glanced at me quickly and then put her eyes back on the road. "We need to find Carolyn."

I nodded in agreement and pulled out my phone to make the call to Ross. After I told him what we had learned from Taggart, it was his turn.

And he and Logan had apparently been on a roll.

I put him on speaker.

"Mike started looking further into Rhonda Hagen's social security number. The computer shows that it was issued at about the age of five, but he got on the phone with someone in their office and had them go to the file room to find the copy of the application."

"At this time of night on a Sunday?" I asked in amazement.

"Let's just say that he's a little determined," Ross replied. "Anyway, the application was dated 1972, but the stamp showing receipt in the office was 2001."

"So she had a new social security number issued to her and she paid off someone to make it look like it was her original. What happened to the old one? Do we know what it was? Do we even know her real name?"

"We're working on it. But we've got some ideas. We're pretty sure she's from New Jersey, right?"

"Yeah," I agreed. We'd followed lots of trails on Rhonda, and they'd all given us at least that one common denominator.

"We found an article about an Addison Hooper who died in 1984 at the age of sixteen," he began.

"She would've been about the same age as Rhonda right now," I interjected.

"Right. And guess where she grew up?"

"Trenton," Alex supplied.

"Right again," Ross confirmed.

"But how do we know it's the right one? There have to be more than one Addison Hooper."

"The newspaper article shows that Hooper died in a car accident when her Mazda was hit head-on by a pick-up truck. There were two other passengers in the Mazda. Sheila Swisher, who died three days later in ICU, and Renee Yoder who walked away from the crash without a scratch."

"So we think that Rhonda Hagen was originally Renee Yoder?"

"She was," he confirmed.

"How do we know for sure?" Alex asked him.

"We'll need photographic evidence," I added. "Just because it fits, that doesn't mean it's fact."

Ross chuckled, obviously thinking the same thing I was once the words were out of my mouth.

The shoe was on the other foot now. He was spouting theories and I was insisting on proof.

"This is what we think. Renee Yoder still exists. She's a fine upstanding citizen. It looks like Rhonda Hagen was the alias used when Renee was committing her crimes, and then maybe to keep the heat to a minimum, she stole the identity of her dead friend Addison Hooper."

"And now she's using Shannon Logan as well," Alex added.

"Get this," Ross said. "Yoder has a bank account and a credit card. Guess where the last charge was made?"

"I've got nothing," I admitted. My mind was reeling trying to keep up with this mess. I wished I'd been writing it down while he was talking.

"It was used for an online purchase of six state-of-the-art listening devices, capable of transmitting sound up to five miles."

I could hear the smile in his voice as he said the words. What were the odds that this Renee person would have a need for bugs?

It had to be Rhonda. And that meant Rhonda had regularly been within five miles of Logan's house.

That also meant that we had a legitimate name to track.

"Please tell me that she had those shipped somewhere other than a PO Box."

"Sorry. But it's a PO Box in Trenton. I figured we'd head there first thing in the morning."

"We'll head there now," I countered. "Find us a name for that cell phone. I'm betting we'll have more leads to track down while we're in the Garden State.

Rodgers POV

I processed the body of our Jane Doe as though she were a friend.

I always took great care with the bodies I examined, but this time was different.

This time, I'd thought it was my friend.

And even though I knew now that it wasn't Carolyn, I still couldn't help but be a little spooked by the similarities.

But I was also determined. This was how I could help.

If I could find out who this girl was, then maybe it would help them find her killer, and by extension, find out for sure who had kidnapped Carolyn.

Because now we knew that whoever had her didn't mind taking a life.

I removed the clothing from the body, noticing now that they weren't a perfect fit. I should've realized to begin with that the girl was slightly bigger than Carolyn.

I'd been too upset to think logically.

I picked up her left hand and removed the wedding rings. I gave Mike credit for not pulling them off the instant he saw them. I dropped them into a cleansing solution and left them on the counter for now.

I would give them back to him when I left here tonight. I would document their existence on the victim, and I'd already taken photos, so I saw no need to keep them.

Once I had taken everything off of her, I went about taking another set of photographs. I made note of the extensive bruising to her midsection as well as around her neck.

My preliminary conclusion was death by manual strangulation.

I took a set of fingerprints from the woman and got those started running through the system while I continued with the autopsy.

I spoke into the recorder while I looked over the body, and I was aware that my voice still sounded shaky.

This whole thing had really gotten to me.

I couldn't remember a time that I'd had so much trouble cutting into a cadaver, even back when I was an intern.

And it wasn't a big secret as to why.

I was analyzing every mark on this woman and thinking of what might be happening to Carolyn.

And while I knew that Danny and the others were working tirelessly to find her, would it be in time?

I had to stop thinking like that. I was ashamed of myself for being so unprofessional.

I buckled down and got to it, channeling my worry into efficiency, taking care to not miss a single thing that might be evidence.

A few minutes later, I was rewarded for my diligence.

The bruising on her face, which was surely done to obscure identity, was actually what gave me the clue. There was an image visible, albeit slight, of a ring. It looked like a monogrammed ring that some men wore on their little finger.

I grabbed my magnifying glass and looked at it more closely, and then took several photos of the area in question. I ran my gloved finger along her cheek in an effort to make the area more decipherable, but instead I felt a slightly grainy surface.

There had been a substance on the ring when it had smashed into her face. I got a collection tube and gathered a sample to send to the lab.

I was hopeful that the substance might narrow down the search. Of course, it could also be something that was found everywhere, but maybe not…

I continued my exam, and then I found something else.

There was a tiny puncture wound amidst the bruising on her stomach. She'd been injected with something, probably something to subdue her. I'd be interested to see the tox report.

And then I heard my computer beep, indicating that it had a hit.

I stepped back from the table and went to see the results.

My Jane Doe now had a name.

Thirty-nine year old Tonya Elroy of Trenton, New Jersey. She'd been arrested twice for prostitution back in the early nineties, which was why her prints had popped.

I immediately pulled out my phone.

Carolyn POV

As I worked like a fiend trying to tear through the thick layer of duct tape on my ankles, I realized something else.

My wedding rings were gone.

Why? Why would my kidnapper take my rings?

I pondered that as I worked tirelessly on the tape, which by this point had turned into a nearly solid compound.

I looked around the room for anything that might speed up my progress. I was pretty sure that Taggart had left because I hadn't heard from him in quite some time.

But since I had no idea when he might get back, I couldn't rest.

I tried again to reach the shelves, but to no avail.

As I shifted around so that I could face the back of the room, I felt a sharp pain on the sole of my foot. I squatted down to check it out, and found that there was a prickly edge on the drain grate.

I immediately dropped onto my butt and moved my ankles over top of the drain. It was an awkward position, but that jagged edge of metal would do the trick a lot faster than my worn down fingernails.

And it did.

After nearly ten minutes of what in essence was an intense abdominal workout, the tape around my ankles snapped. I quickly pulled the torn tape out from under the cuff to ease some of the pressure on my ankle.

So now I had my left foot free while my right was still cuffed to the grate, but at least it was a tremendous improvement. Because now, with one foot free, I could reach just a little bit further.

Now I could reach the edge of the shelf.

It was a high shelf, so I couldn't see what was on it, but I felt my way around.

And there wasn't much.

Some rags, some rubber gloves, a box of steel wool pads, and a scrub brush.

I stretched as far as I could and my finger tips touched something else. A bottle of some sort, which gave me hope. A bottle of anything in a closet full of cleaning supplies was bound to be useful.

For one of the few times in my life, I cursed my small stature. If I had longer arms, this wouldn't be quite so difficult, but even though I wasn't tall, I was resourceful. I used the scrub brush to give me the extra few inches I needed and I managed to scoot the bottle closer to the edge.

An unlabeled spray bottle of what smelled to be an ammonia-based cleanser.

I could make that work.

I put the brush back on the shelf so that the items would appear to be undisturbed and then I waited.

While I waited, I thought about Mike. I tried to picture what he was doing right now, but then I felt myself getting choked up and I had to stop.

I couldn't think about him right now.

I had to get into attack mode.

Be strong, Carolyn, I told myself.

Because this wasn't a game, and it wasn't for the faint-hearted. Only one of us was going to be leaving this room alive.

And it was damn sure going to be me.

Resolve flooded through me, and not a moment too soon.

I heard a door open and close somewhere nearby, and then the sound of heavy footfalls approaching the door of the closet.

This was it. I wouldn't get a second chance.

I'd positioned myself on the floor, lying exactly as I had been when I first woke up, only this time I had the bottle in hand. My back was to the door, so it was hidden from view.

As I listened to him work the key in the lock, I realized that I may have made a fatal error.

What if the sprayer didn't work on the first try?

I should've squirted it already to be sure. If I did it now, then the smell would be fresh in the air, and it would be more noticeable.

But it was a chance I had to take. The whole room smelled slightly anyway, so it was a good possibility that he wouldn't notice.

I quickly aimed the bottle away from me, and had to squirt three times before a steady stream came out.

That last second thought may have been the difference between life and death.

The door came open and I held my breath as I waited for him to approach.

"Shit, she should be awake by now," he muttered. "Maybe I didn't calculate the dosage right."

I listened as he walked up behind me and bent over me, running his hand into my hair to pull it back from my face.

I immediately rolled onto my back, bringing the bottle up and spraying him in the face, my finger working the trigger repeatedly as fast as it would go.

Then, since he was standing over me, I brought my unshackled foot straight up as hard as I could, catching him in the groin while he stood vulnerable with his hands over his face.

"Fuck!" he shouted, staggering away from me.

But I couldn't let him get too far away. If he moved from my reach, he could allow himself time to recover before approaching me again.

I had to get him now.

Dropping the bottle, I sprang to my feet and grabbed for his shirt, but instead I caught him by the waistband of his pants. I tugged as hard as I could, jerking him towards me and then I started hitting him.

I applied everything I'd ever learned about hand-to-hand combat.

And whatever was in that bottled had really messed him up, because his eyes had swollen and he was barely even defending himself, much less fighting back.

I continued pummeling him, my anger and exhaustion eventually causing my blows to become erratic.

But I didn't slow down until I realized that he was gasping for air.

I kept a tight grip on his pants because I absolutely could not let him get out of my reach. I stood still, sweating and breathing heavily, while I waited to see if I needed to start round two.

He had been cursing and screaming before, but now only a wheezing sound was coming out, and I determined that one of my blows had crushed his trachea.

He was suffocating to death.

He went down to his knees, now clutching at his throat, but I followed him down and kept my hold, still afraid that he may try to crawl away from me.

But he didn't.

I finally let him go as he fell down onto his side and I listened to him struggle for air.

The whole thing probably only took about ten minutes, but it felt like so much longer.

He wasn't the first person I'd killed, but that didn't make it any easier.

And I had to remind myself of the situation.

It was him or me.

I didn't have a choice.

I only felt remorse for a moment. I hadn't started this thing. He did when he threatened Mike and ordered me out of Steve-O's.

I methodically began searching his pockets for the key to the cuff that was holding me captive, but after several minutes, new panic set in.

He didn't have it on him. And he didn't have his cell phone.

I was no longer in danger from my captor, but I was still trapped.

And I was going to die unless someone found me.

TBC...