Chapter 4
four
Six a.m. came stupid early.
It slammed into her skull like a hammer blow, dragging her out of dreams that made even less sense than her waking life. She squinted at her phone, cursing under her breath as she rolled off the mattress and staggered into the closet-sized bathroom.
She looked like a prizefighter the morning after a close loss.
Purple smudges under both eyes. Bruise on one knuckle where she’d clipped the counter last night.
Hair wild, sticking out from her braid in jagged, angry tufts.
She’d been so convinced she’d never sleep, and now she could barely claw her way back to the surface.
Pull it together, Nomi. You’re meeting a man who can probably spot a lie at two hundred yards and make you eat it for breakfast. Try not to look like you spent the night crying into a plastic cup.
She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and quickly re-braided her hair.
No makeup. Not here to impress. She picked out a clean pair of jeans, her favorite boots, and a Pendleton shirt she’d inherited from her dad the year he died.
It had a graphic of a bull rider on the back, but she’d throw a jacket on to hide that.
Besides, Ghost wasn’t the type to judge her wardrobe.
Downstairs, she shrugged on her jacket, grabbed her messenger bag, and double-checked that her case notes were in order. She was out the door minutes later, sprinting on empty, running on stubbornness and yesterday’s adrenaline.
The drive up to Valor Ridge was beautiful.
The sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours yet, but the eastern sky was already losing the inky blackness of nighttime, becoming a pale blue-gray as the sun approached.
The mountains hulked in front of her like sleeping giants.
Her little SUV rattled up the dirt road to Valor Ridge, tires skidding once on loose gravel before catching again.
She should’ve been focused on strategy, her interview later with Carina Padilla, the way Hank Goodwin had already started posturing in the press.
Instead, all she could think about was how her face must look in this light, and whether Ghost would notice that she’d worn the same jeans two days in a row.
Dumb.
She’d dealt with actual psychopaths before breakfast on more than one occasion. But there was something particularly nerve-wracking about meeting this man, and she couldn’t put her finger on why.
She topped a ridge that the ranch was named for and braked. The ranch sprawled below, lights on in the main house and the large building beside it. They sure do get an early start around here.
The main gate was a thick wooden arch, the kind that looked like it should have a proper cattle brand burned into the beam.
She slowed rolling up, gravel popping under her tires.
The drive curved through a stand of brittle larch and cottonwood, clearing suddenly to reveal the ranch buildings scattered across the slope.
Wood smoke spiraled out of a stovepipe on the biggest house.
Her headlights caught the edge of a black truck parked near the first cabin on the left.
Ghost’s cabin, if he hadn’t been screwing with her.
She parked beside it, exhaled, and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror.
Terrible idea. The eyes of a raccoon, the jawline of a woman who hadn’t eaten or slept properly in a week.
Whatever, she wasn’t here to win a beauty contest. She was here for information.
Naomi shouldered her bag, zipped her jacket, and headed for the cabin.
He was waiting.
Ghost stood in the open doorway, as still as a scarecrow, arms folded across his chest. He wore a faded black T-shirt and jeans, boots planted shoulder-width apart.
For a guy who claimed to hate being noticed, he sure took up a lot of space.
His hair was damp, plastered down on one side, like he’d just run wet hands through it to tame the mess.
She approached, willing herself not to fidget.
He didn’t offer a greeting or a smile. Just stepped back and let her inside, shutting the door behind her.
The cabin was exactly what she’d expected.
Spartan, efficient, all order. There was a battered sofa, a table covered with maps and laptops, and a wall lined with monitors.
The air smelled of fresh coffee, and she spotted the pot burbling on a sideboard.
He didn’t offer her any, and she didn’t ask, although she desperately needed the caffeine.
A large dog materialized from the shadows at Ghost’s heel, hackles lifted. She was a gorgeous animal—tall and lean, with the proud, fox-sharp face of a shepherd and a coat so black it caught blue where the light touched it. She radiated the same quiet warning as the man beside her.
“Don’t mind Cinder,” Ghost said. “She doesn’t like strangers.”
The dog watched her with an expression in her amber eyes that said one wrong move and she’d lose a finger. Maybe two.
Naomi nodded. “I don’t, either.”
He gestured to the table. “Sit.”
She did, trying not to feel like she was stepping straight into a police lineup. He took the chair across from her, every movement measured, controlled. The dog lay down at his feet, yellow eyes never leaving her.
They sat in silence for a second. Naomi resisted the urge to fill it. Let him talk first if he wanted.
Ghost reached under the table and produced a battered file box. “Everything I’ve got on the missing women. Digital backup’s encrypted, but these are the hard copies.”
She hesitated, then accepted the box.
It was heavier than she expected. She set it on the table and popped the lid.
Inside: color-coded folders, printouts, spiral-bound legal pads stuffed with sticky notes. Some pages were creased and coffee-stained. Others were crisp, like they’d just been printed.
The man’s organizational skills bordered on obsessive.
She almost smiled.
Ghost slid a mug of coffee onto the table next to her elbow. She took a sip, not thinking much of it, until the sweetness hit her tongue.
No cream, three sugars. Just the way she liked it. She looked up at him in surprise. “How did you know?”
His expression remained impassive. “I make it my business to know everything.”
“That’s not creepy at all.”
A faint scowl pulled at the corners of his lips. “I was trying to be considerate. If you don’t want—”
She snatched the mug away before he could reach for it. “Don’t you dare.” She wrapped both hands around the mug and drank, the caffeine and sugar hitting her system like jumper cables to a dead battery.
Oh God, she’d needed that.
When she glanced at Ghost again, his eyes had gone stormy and a muscle ticked in his jaw like he was clenching his teeth.
She set down the mug. “What’s wrong?”
The muscle in Ghost’s jaw ticked again. “Nothing.” But the flatness of his tone said different.
She narrowed her eyes, held his stare and, out of pure stubbornness, picked the mug back up and took another big swallow.
Oh, hell. It was perfect. Hot, sweet, exactly right. She couldn’t stop the ragged sound that slipped out, a low, throaty moan that belonged in a bedroom and not at a battered kitchen table surrounded by missing persons files.
Ghost’s eyebrows jerked up. Fast. His gaze went straight to her mouth, and this time he didn’t bother pretending not to notice. If anything, he leaned in, like he was cataloguing the exact shade her cheeks went when she realized what she’d done.
“Sorry,” she muttered, fighting the flush. “That’s just… really good coffee.”
He didn’t answer, just stared at her like she’d sprouted a horn in the middle of her forehead. The dog at his feet matched his glare, ears slicked back and tail curled tight, as if she might lunge across the table and bite.
Naomi set the mug down, squared her shoulders, and reached for the first folder. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”
She flipped open the first folder and found a hand-labeled tab: Padilla, Leila. Leelee stared up at her, the color photo printed off social media, bright and grainy. It hurt every time.
Ghost still didn’t speak. Just watched, arms folded, the dog’s chin resting on his boot.
Naomi rifled through the pages. Timeline. Witness reports. Surveillance logs from the casino, painstakingly annotated. A hand-drawn map with four X’s along a stretch of Route 12, all clustered within a five-mile radius.
Her pulse sped up.
“You mapped their last known locations,” she said, flipping to the next page.
He nodded. “And cross-referenced sightings of that black truck. No plates anyone could ID, not even a partial.”
She scanned his notes. His handwriting was sharp, no-nonsense, but the margins were filled with code: initials, dates, GPS coordinates. He’d built a case stronger than any she’d seen from the sheriff.
“You got all this on your own?” she asked.
He shrugged, like it was nothing. “I had time.”
She highly doubted that. She knew Walker Nash kept his men busy, so he was squeezing all this in between his ranch duties.
Question was, why?
But she doubted she’d get a clear answer if she asked him, so she didn’t bother. She dragged the folders closer, stacking them by date. “You ever show this to Goodwin?”
At that, Ghost’s mouth twisted. “He’s not interested in hearing from me.”
“Yeah, that tracks.” She let the sarcasm bleed through. “Mind if I take these?”
“Go ahead. I have digital back-ups.”
She did a quick scan of the other folders. Names: Chelsea Quequesah. Tara Rainwater. Jordann Pete.
Each face was familiar, too familiar. Each file was thick with printouts, phone records, post-its stuck at angles, the raw desperation of people who wanted answers.
She tried not to think about how many of these women she’d seen in happier photos, at powwows or school assemblies, when the world still felt fixable.
Then she flipped to the last file and froze at the name on the label. Mary Rose Charlo.