Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
CREW
Something’s off the second I pull into the parking lot of Mount Rainier National Park.
Her car is exactly where Miguel said it would be, though it’s angled slightly as though she didn’t bother correcting herself after turning into the spot.
The headlights are off, the driver’s door and trunk are closed tight.
The rest of the lot is empty, too, save for a few of the old as fuck ranger trucks parked toward the back.
There’s nothing visibly wrong here.
Except for the fact Alma is nowhere to be found.
I sit there for a moment with my hand curled around the wheel, listening, letting the quiet settle around me. There’s no footsteps crunching nearby, no frantic pacing or voices carrying through the trees. Only insects, wind, and the forest doing what it always does—pretending it hasn’t seen worse.
Although I’m not entirely sure how much worse whatever I’m walking into is about to be.
The call from Miguel had been short. They always are with him.
There was no explanation or emotional bleed-through, just minimal details he thought mattered, delivered in that steady, ranger-flat tone.
The one that told me panic already happened elsewhere, and we were past the point of indulging it.
I’m simply damage control. Nothing less, nothing more.
With a hushed exhale, I get out of the truck and crouch beside her car, sweeping my flashlight over the ground. At first, there’s nothing obviously wrong. No overturned gravel, frantic footprints, nothing that screams disaster.
But then I see it.
A dark smear in the grass near the edge of the lot, thin and uneven. It’s so thin, anyone would walk right past it if they weren’t paying attention.
Blood.
I straighten slowly, letting the beam travel toward the opening of the woods just beyond the pavement.
The grass there is bent wrong, flattened into a narrow path that disappears between the trees.
Leaves appear disturbed, flipped to their pale undersides as if someone moved through here without stopping to care about what they were leaving behind.
She didn’t stay where she was told.
That much is clear.
I’d say she couldn’t have gone far, but this is a national park, for fuck’s sake.
She could be anywhere. If Miguel hadn’t told me she was scared, I’d be more annoyed right now.
The thing is, panic doesn’t make people stupid.
It just gives urgency to the worst possible instincts.
Her instincts are clearly shit, but it’s not her fault.
Following the trail she probably doesn’t even realize she’s made, I pass broken twigs, scuffed dirt, and a spot where something heavy paused, then shifted again. The deeper I go, the clearer this story becomes, written plainly across the forest floor.
There’s a body involved here, and time is already working against us.
I keep moving. More blood comes into view, not pooled or sprayed, just smeared thinly across grass and leaves, as though she kept changing her mind about where she was going.
Drag marks veer left, then right. There’s even a spot where it looks like she sat down for several moments, likely to catch her breath.
As I slow my steps, rolling my weight carefully onto the heels of my Converse, I finally spot her.
I keep the beam of my light low as I circle a tree, angling for a clearer view without stepping fully into her line of sight.
I’d be more worried about the sound of my approach, but panic has her narrowed down to a single moment, a single problem, and she’s not hearing anything else.
She’s folded in on herself near a fallen log, hands braced on her knees, dirt streaking one cheek.
Her shoulders tremble, whether from the bite of autumn giving way to winter or the adrenaline still burning through her; I can’t tell.
It’s probably a mix of both.
That’s when the wrong detail clicks into place, though.
It’s the red long-sleeve crop top, bright against the dark woods, like a flare where there shouldn’t be one.
The observation itself wouldn’t be so bad if my brain didn’t immediately follow that up with a deeply unhelpful thought.
She looks wrecked, terrified, and yet still unfairly attractive in a way that makes me eager to meet her.
I shut that shit down immediately.
This is a job, a favor owed to her father, not a blind date.
A few feet behind her, partially hidden by brush, is a shape that doesn’t belong. There’s an arm visible in the moonlight, pale against the leaves and bent at an angle that makes my jaw tighten.
I step forward, just enough for the beam to catch both of them at once. “Um, is that a body?”
Alma startles so hard she nearly falls over. The sound she makes is half gasp, half swear—all panic—and when she whirls around to face me, her brown eyes are blown wide, hands coming up like she’s deciding whether to fight me or bolt past me.
“Jesus Christ,” she pants. “Do you normally sneak up on women in the woods, or did I unlock some kind of murder side quest?”
I blink once, mostly to buy myself a second. “Depends. Did you complete the tutorial at the beginning?”
She stares at me, chest heaving, then lets out a sharp, breathless laugh that skids sideways almost immediately, wobbling into something brittle and hysterical. “I’m so going to jail. I couldn’t even make it past the first objective without getting caught.”
Lowering the flashlight a few inches, I angle the beam away from her face. “Nah, you’re good. If I were here to arrest you, we wouldn’t be chatting.”
That gets her thinking. Her brown-eyed gaze flicks past me for only a second, suspicion bleeding through the panic. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Crew. Your dad sent me.”
That lands. Hard. Her shoulders sag like someone finally cut the tension holding her upright as she presses a hand to her chest, eyes glassy. “He…he did?”
“Yeah. Told me where you’d be, more or less.”
“So you’re not a cop.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“And you’re not here to,” she gestures vaguely at the woods behind me, “kill me or whatever?”
“Also no, so let’s try to take a breath, yeah?”
She looks at me as if breathing might be negotiable, but tries anyway, inhaling shakily through her nose and releasing it between her lips.
“Everything’s going to be okay.” My voice comes evenly and confidently. “But you’re done touching things. From here on out, you let me handle it. Got it?”
She glances at the body. “That’s…probably for the best.”
“Definitely.” I’m already mapping what comes next, mentally problem solving by urgency as I track the near area around us. “For now, I just need you to stay right here. Don’t move, don’t wander, don’t try to be helpful.”
“That last one feels personal,” she carps.
“It is,” I deadpan. “You’ve done more than enough for one night.”
Alma nods silently and folds her arms around herself like she’s trying to keep from falling apart.
“I’m going to walk back the way you came, okay? I just need to look at a few things. You’re not going to follow me, and you’re not gonna look behind me.”
Those brown eyes shoot traitorously in the exact direction I just warned her away from. I say nothing, just raise an eyebrow, and she instantly winces in realization. “Right, no looking, got it. Eyes forward like when you’re in a haunted house.”
“Exactly, except if you scream, it’s going to complicate things.”
“No pressure,” she grumbles.
I hesitate for half a second, then pull off my hoodie and hold it out to her. “Here, put this on.”
She looks down at it in confusion. “I’m not cold.”
“That’s not why I’m giving it to you.” I tip my chin in her direction, motioning toward her shirt.
Her lips part, clearly on the verge of arguing, but then she takes in what she’s wearing and seems to think better of it. A quiet thank you leaves her as she takes the garment and pulls it on over her head.
I take that as my cue. As I turn away and follow the path, I force myself not to immediately look back.
Giving her space matters, so does not hovering.
Still, I keep her in my peripheral long enough to ensure she stays put.
When another minute passes and she keeps her stare firmly trained on a patch of grass, only then do I let myself focus on the task at hand.
The forest feels different now, charged, like it knows it’s been dragged into something it didn’t ask for.
I move carefully, following the disturbed ground with an eye trained more on patterns than details.
Where she slipped a little, where she hesitated, where fear overrode logic and momentum died.
Cleanup isn’t about erasing evidence. That’s a fantasy people have because it makes them feel better. Real cleanup is about containment, control, and knowing when to stop touching things.
I catalogue what I see and, just as importantly, what I don’t. When I circle back, she’s exactly where I left her. She looks up the second she hears me approach.
“Am I…okay?” she asks.
“For now,” I tell her. “There’s a few things that need clean up but, for the most part, the odd passerby would never notice.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been stuck in her chest for hours. “Okay. What happens next?”
I look at her, really look at her, and feel the weight of the answer unfurl somewhere behind my ribs. “We’re heading to the sulfur pits.”