Chapter 1
Lily
Icould jump. Not should, nor would I actually. But I could.
Especially standing here at the edge.
The gold chain glimmers in the sunlight as I thumb it like my personal rosary.
Except this necklace doesn’t bring peace or help keep count of prayers.
No. This necklace was worn by the devil himself.
It’s smooth, the ridged links scraping my skin as I slip the delicate chain through my fingers until the raven bumps my thumb and forefinger. The bird, also gold, stares up at me.
Scoffing, I pocket the jewelry and fold to sit on the sun-heated rock. It’s like taking a warm bath. The toasty sandstone mimics a heated seat, and I let myself groan at the sensation. Mostly because I don’t have heated seats, probably never will.
My secondhand hiking boots scrape along the rock when I tuck my legs up, resting my chin on my knee, and I take a deep breath to inhale the breathtaking views of Yosemite.
The sun spreads across the nude-colored dome in the distance, like butter gliding across a fresh stack of diner waffles.
Magenta and apricot swirls with unearthly variation, all oozing against the cloudless sky as dusk settles over the park.
Rugged in beauty, trees encase the water below the sheer drop I’m perched on.
Towering pines and ancient sequoias stretch as far as my near perfect vision can see with three-month-old contacts.
Dark green contrasts with the fiery shades of burnt oranges, crisp golds, and the reds of the maples and dogwoods.
In the years I’ve been traveling, fall has always been my favorite season. I make my way out West every September to catch the crisp cool air or the faint scent of apples, leaves, and pine.
Yosemite, though, is a first for me. The Great Smoky Mountains, Yellowstone, Zion—I’ve traveled and hiked each of them.
I’d pick up a temporary job in a nearby town and hustle for money, while spending all my free time on the nature trails.
It seems to be the prescribed treatment for my incessant nightmares.
Out West is where I’d like to stay. Far away from my small hometown of Ruin, Mississippi. However, I can’t hold a steady job, and around the six-month mark the itch to move on, to run, scratches at my gut and pushes me to leave.
The distant roar of an unseen waterfall echoes, ghostlike, off the valley, and I take a gander over my shoulder, checking the trail behind me for other climbers.
No one, thankfully. I don’t want people to see me up here and assume the worst—don’t want their stares, whispers, or the way their expressions might take pity on me, like they can see through me.
Rustling, I dig through the pocket of my khakis and pull out my vape, juiced with Blueberry Ice—my favorite. When I press the button a few times, it powers on, and I bring the mouthpiece to my lips to inhale, then release a slow exhale of vapor.
The cool sensation hits the back of my throat while the taste of ripe blueberries sweetens my taste buds. Another inhale, and mint smooths over my tongue. The tense muscles I carried up here from last night’s nightmare relax while the breeze tosses the branches near me.
I itch to pull out my pencil and write, the tiny notebook weighing heavy in my pocket. Granted, the best lines come when I’m riding that creative high, floating somewhere between brilliance and madness, and this vape pen isn’t even getting me close.
I ignore the desire to record the hellish voices in my head, allowing the rhythmic pulse of words to fade away on the humming wind.
With another deep breath, the faint sweetness fills my lungs again, followed by the brittle air.
When I shift forward, the slick soles of my hiking boots slip against the smooth rock face, and my stomach vaults into my throat.
Shit, I need new shoes. My boots offer little traction with their used status and all the miles I’ve put on them since.
When everything … happened, my hometown became my personal hell.
Not the kind that comes from having to share the town with him, but a truly disturbing abyss where demons claw their way out of the pit.
Their twisted, shadowy forms all wear his face, writhing as they emerge from the darkness.
My darkness. Each day I stayed, convincing myself I could heal—it was all in vain.
Nothing could mend the cuts carved into me.
I’ve been on the move for almost five years and not once have I come close to feeling whole again.
With another drag from my vape pen, I shift back, letting the valley sprawl out in front of me, like one of the old watercolor paintings that used to hang in my parents’ home.
Threads of fall have replaced most of the green, but flecks of pine dot the tree line along the trail that twists and disappears behind me.
For it being early October with some of the nicest hiking weather, the trail is quiet today.
The kind that settles into your bones with the whipping wind or a distant hawk’s call.
There’s a rustle that causes a prickle at the base of my neck, and I glance over my shoulder at the trail stretching through the trees. A breeze wrestles a few leaves loose from where they cling to their branches, but there’s nothing there.
This is a higher point, so I’m not sure many people would venture up here.
I like it because all the tourists’ noise and clutter is relegated below me.
So, when another snap echoes behind me, I stiffen.
Attempting to temper my paranoia, I keep facing forward, following a large bird as it glides down from the nest in a tree.
My hands tremble as I reach out for a loose rock to …
what? Bludgeon someone with? Throw at a bear?
I gulp. Perhaps seeking the most off-beat path was poor judgement, especially when I’m alone.
When the single snap turns into a shuffle, punctuated by a heavy panting, I rotate toward the sound and come face to face with an open-mouthed dog.
My eyes widen as I take in this large German Shepherd.
It stands tall, its muscular frame alert, eyes sharp and focused.
It’s panting, heavily, its breath a disgusting mix of shit and mushy kibble, but its ears are perked and twitching.
Every few pants, it hauls in his lolled-out tongue in favor of sniffing the air.
I don’t move. I can’t. My body locks in place, crippling my motivation to peace out.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I shift further around. The damn thing is off leash and wearing a—
Is that a vest?
“Miss?”
In my peripheral, a man approaches, but I don’t take my eyes off this dog to glance at him. Pretty sure every sign I’ve seen about dogs in national parks has them required to be on a leash, and big ones like this, with a low rumbling growl doused in power—no thank you.
“I don’t do dogs!” I yell out, turning back to face the vast canyon and take another drag of my vape pen to help my thrumming pulse.
“Ma’am?” The man’s voice is authoritative, and I roll my eyes.
I ignore him. This man needs to leash his dog and move on.
Several seconds tick by with no response, and if it weren’t for the eerie silence opposed to the crunch of rock as the man moves on, I’d have stayed seated. Instead, I stand, blowing out another puff before turning to find a national park ranger staring at me.
He’s average height, although I’m fairly petite, so most men have a few inches on me.
His muscular legs are wrapped in khaki cargo pants and a black fleece North Face is zipped up to his chin.
A National Park Law Enforcement patch is on his jacket opposite the brand logo, and I wince when I spot it.
When he barks out a command to the dog in another language, I glance at his face.
He’s tan, the sun-warmed kind that comes from long hours outdoors, with abnormally smooth features.
His dark hair is buzzed tight along the sides with the top left long enough to push a hand through.
A sharp jawline frames and highlights the clean angles of his face, and those eyes …
they’re a muddy brown, but rich and earthy, with flecks of amber that sparkle despite his scowling expression.
“I don’t do people either,” I state, reaching down for my backpack and water bottle. In a couple of steps, I move around him, but an arm extends in front of me and my entire world skids to a halt.
No, no. This isn’t happening. He—
I glance at the trail, searching for someone, then take two steps back.
The ranger’s tawny eyes narrow at me. “Vaping is not allowed in national parks.”
My eyelids flutter as I exhale a sigh of relief. “Yeah, okay, buddy.”
I hate law enforcement. I couldn’t care less if he sings “Kumbaya” with the trees, is one with the rocks, or gets off having moss between his toes.
I move toward the path. Another three miles back to my car doesn’t sound appealing right at the moment. Not sure it matters, though. The damn dog lets out a snarl as I shuffle forward.
“You need to hand over the contraband.”
I snort, looking at the man. “Contraband?” There’s another growl from the mutt heeled at his side. “Muzzle your damn shepherd.”
He straightens, foot propped on a rock, but still, he rolls his shoulders. “He’s a Malinois. Not a German Shepherd.”
“Whatever,” I say, extending my vape pen—er, excuse me, contraband.
Mr. Ranger takes it, then rolls it between his thumb and pointer finger. It’s nothing special. Just your standard boring and black rechargeable I picked up in Utah of all places. The man’s thick eyebrows knit together while he studies it for a few seconds, then he returns it to me.
“Just don’t use this in the park. Consider this your verbal warning. Next time you could be subject to a fine.” He stares at me with his head tilted to the side. His eyes flick to the edge of the rock I was sitting on then down to the canyon below. “You all right up here?”