Chapter Twenty-One
I’ve invited Lilith to more than just dinner.
It’s games night. This alternates between D they’re on him, basking in his full attention.
Dalton worried he wouldn’t be a good father.
While most new dads have concerns about that, he grew up in Rockton, where he was the only child.
But I knew this is exactly what he’d be like as a father, because it’s what he is—patient and kind and loving and endlessly fascinated by the world around him and eager to share it.
Movement flashes outside the window. Our guests arriving.
I rise and walk over to see Kenny and April.
She’s talking, and she’s obviously irritated by something, needing to vent about it to someone, and Kenny is that someone.
Maybe the only one she really feels she can talk to that way, who will let her vent without belittling her concerns or offering advice.
He walks beside her, nodding and occasionally replying with a word or two, which is all anyone needs for a good vent.
I look from Dalton, still playing with Rory, to Kenny, engrossed in what is almost certainly a very minor issue of April’s and treating it with all the serious concern she needs. We’re lucky, both of us, to have someone who so perfectly fits what we need.
“That April?” Dalton says, obviously hearing her voice.
I walk over, bending to hug him from the back and kiss his head.
“What’s that for?” he says.
I smile and say, “Nothing,” and then I go to answer the door.
It’s the middle of the night, and I’m on patrol. Actually, Dalton and I are both on duty. We’ve felt bad about opting out so far. Of course, no one really expects us to take our turns when we have a baby and an active investigation, but we feel the weight of that responsibility.
We head out at four, after feeding Rory and delivering her to Dana. It’s still dark. Pitch-dark. We’re on the path with Storm, circling the town on first one path and then another, with only a faint light to guide us.
I’m usually up at this hour anyway. The only difference is I’d be cuddled in a chair, sipping tea before a roaring fire, waiting for the sun to rise.
Okay, it’s a big difference, compared to freezing my ass off in the predawn hours, walking in circles while trying to pay attention to the slightest noise or movement around us.
We can’t talk either. That’s even more important now, when the darkness seems to add a layer of silence. Even our footsteps whisper on the hard path.
I’m struggling to focus. It’s dark, and I’m cold and bored, and my mind wants to help out by taking me someplace else.
Think about the case. About Blake. About Gretchen.
About the mining camp. So much to consider, and yet the moment I even idly process a thought, my brain deep-dives into it, yanking all my focus along for the ride.
So I am stuck walking and trying to just enjoy that while paying attention to my surroundings. Then, when we’re on the outermost path, Dalton puts up a hand to stop me, and the moment I halt, I hear a voice.
A woman’s voice?
That’s what it sounds like. It’s low, as if whispered. Another voice responds, this one sounding male.
Dalton looks at me. Considering the options.
I gesture for him to take this one, while I hang back with Storm.
He still pauses, but ultimately, he nods.
It might just be residents, up early and not realizing their voices are carrying, even in whispers.
But someone needs to sneak up for a look, and that should be him.
As he goes, I back up against a tree and take out my gun. Storm sits in front of me. And we wait.
Any other time, I’d marvel at how silently Dalton moves, but when it’s this quiet, I can hear him.
The scuff of his boot against the ground.
The swish of his sleeve against his jacket.
Soon that fades, and I’m alone in the dark and the silence.
Even Storm leans against me, as if she doesn’t like this any more than I do.
The voices are sporadic, and I can’t tell whether that’s disjointed conversation or only part of it is reaching me.
There’s no chance that I’d recognize either with the whisper rasping through both.
I still try, hoping to decipher a word or two, but it reminds me of a horror movie, where you decipher what sounds like voices, but you can’t be sure you aren’t just hypersensitive.
Then the voices stop. I tense and strain to listen.
Did they hear Dalton? But then a few more words come, this time from the man, and his tone is even. A word from the woman. Then the crackling of undergrowth loud enough that it sounds like gunfire, though it’s just the normal rustle of fall foliage underfoot.
Someone is leaving the conversation, heading away from us, their footfalls fading into silence.
A second person comes this way, more quietly.
I adjust my gun, but the trajectory is sending that person to my right, heading northwest. Still, I ease into the forest and motion for Storm to follow.
She does, and while her passage makes a bit of noise, the footfalls don’t stop.
Whoever is out here isn’t paying attention—or dismisses the sound as an animal.
I track the person’s passage until the steps seem to hit the trail we’ve been on.
Then the crackling of undergrowth stops, replaced by the dull thump of boots on hard ground.
I hold my breath until I’m sure they’re going in the other direction.
Then I gesture for Storm to stay where she is, and I step onto the path.
I can grumble about the dark, but the half-moon shines enough light for me to see shapes, and I can make out one farther down the path.
It’s a person walking in the other direction.
By the shoulders-to-hip ratio and the gait, I’d guess male.
I note a branch as the figure passes under it so I can estimate height later. For now, I only watch.
“Behind you,” a voice whispers, and I jump, only to hear Dalton’s soft sigh. He’d tried to warn me, but that never really helps in a dark forest.
I whirl back toward the retreating figure, who doesn’t seem to have heard anything. I motion to it. Dalton nods. He already knew.
The question is: Does one of us go after them? We can’t both follow with Storm, but nor can we just let someone walk away.
Do we follow quietly? Or do we confront?
Confronting would be more dangerous but also more efficient. Still, it’s not quite dawn, and we have no way of being sure this person is alone—they definitely weren’t a few minutes ago.
Dalton bends to my ear. “I’m going to swing around. Try to get closer through the forest. Follow with Storm, but stay as far back as you can.”
I nod. It’s the best solution when we can’t see who we’re following or whether they’re armed.
I ease back toward the forest as Dalton sets out. Then I wait in the shadows, until the figure vanishes from view, before I set out.
After a few steps, I pause and remove my boots.
Then I take another couple of steps. That’s better.
Without boots, my steps make no sound on the hard path.
Of course, this also means that I am in stockinged feet, and I’d better hope I don’t need to run.
If Dalton sees me, he’ll either be impressed or amused.
But it makes me feel better. I can walk in silence if I stick to the middle of the well-groomed trail.
Storm isn’t completely quiet, but her padded paws don’t make nearly as much noise as my boots had.
I can’t see the figure ahead. They’ve rounded a corner, and as I approach that, I slow to a near stop and peer around it to see an empty path.
Damn it.
As often as I’ve walked this route, I’m not entirely sure where I am along it. Does the trail bend again just up ahead? Does it branch off?
Or is the person I’m following poised in the forest, having heard someone behind them?
I holster my gun and take out my bear spray instead.
I won’t hesitate to use that, and my open jacket means I can easily grab the gun if needed.
Then I continue walking. I’ve gone maybe fifty paces when I see the adjoining trail.
It’s a faint one, another started by game but now also used by us.
That tells me where we are. It does not, however, help me know where my target is. Or where my husband is.
Do I continue on the main trail and presume my target is just too far ahead for me to see? Or do I veer onto this one?
I glance at Storm, but I haven’t given her any command to track. Not that she could, when the path must be laden with scents.
This one is up to me.
I think the path ahead is straight enough that I should have been able to see my target if they didn’t veer onto this one. So I make the turn.
As I walk, I listen, but the only sounds are those of the forest waking up. Light streaks the sky. No sun yet, but it’s coming. I take another step. Then I realize I’m walking on softer ground—not the hard-packed trail from before. I pause to put on my boots.
Yesterday, Gretchen hit my bad leg, and while I’ve been trying to ignore it, it’s definitely bruised and swollen, and I can’t get my boot on as easily as I got it off.
I need to lean against a tree and tug it on with my leg screaming at me for forcing it up.
That pain distracts me for a second too long, and when Storm’s head shoots up, I freeze, laces in hand.
She’s looking into the forest behind me.
I ease away from the tree. There’s enough light for me to see up and down the trail, but not into the forest where Storm is staring.
Could it be Dalton?
As if hearing my thoughts, Storm growls, and I have my answer.
Not Dalton.
I make sure my jacket is open, the gun easily accessible. Then I step to one side, with my gaze laser focused in the direction Storm is looking.
A rustle in the forest followed by silence.
I take one slow sideways step. Then I see it.
A figure among the trees. A figure that is definitely human, and almost definitely male.
He’s at least six inches taller than me.
I think he has dark hair, but then the smoothness of his scalp suggests it could be a hood or balaclava.
I can’t make out a face. He’s too far away and too shadowed for that.
We stare at each other in a standoff. I don’t dare raise my bear spray for fear of scaring him off. Or of having him fire a gun at me, because I can’t see his hands.
Should I say something? He’s sure as hell not going to answer.
But he’s not running either.
Not running because he isn’t sure I see him? Or not running because he isn’t frightened? Because he’s holding a damn gun on me and, between the distance and the shadows, I can’t see it.
Damn it, I don’t know what’s the right call here. I feel as if I’m in a face-off with a predator, not knowing which side of the divide I’m on: dinner or danger.
Finally, I break the impasse with improv.
I bend and pat Storm’s head. “What’s the matter, girl? It better not be another moose, not after the last one you chased.”
I swear I get side-eye from Storm for that. But I also swear the figure relaxes. Clearly, I can’t see him. Also, in case he was wondering, I’m not alone. I have a dog.
“It’s getting close to breakfast time,” I say. “And I could really use a coffee. What do you say we wrap this up?”
A sudden explosion of sound in the forest has me jumping, bear spray raised, expecting to see the man charging my way. Instead, he’s running north … and someone’s following.
Dalton. He heard my voice and zeroed in on his target. Which is totally why I was talking. Well, it would have been, if I’d thought of it.
He must have tried sneaking up on the man, and if I’d realized that, I’d have chattered more to distract the guy, but there was no way for Dalton and me to communicate. Now Dalton is running after him, and I’m racing down the path parallel to them, with Storm behind me.
The man Dalton is chasing must be just as fast as he is, because he doesn’t seem to gain on him. And as they run, I fall back. Not intentionally. My leg just can’t keep up at the best of times, and definitely not when it was whacked with a tree branch yesterday.
I try to go faster. After all, I’m on a clear path and they’re in the forest, dodging obstacles in the dawn light. But soon the noise of their chase heads farther west, and my path continues due north.
“Goddamn it!” I curse as I finally slow.
Storm nudges my hand, and I pat her head as I peer into the forest. I need to let Dalton take this one. Even if I run into the woods, they have too much of a head—
A woman’s scream cuts through the forest. I spin, tracking the sound. It’s to the south, in the direction we came.
Another shriek, and then a sound that stops me cold.
The roar of a grizzly bear.