Chapter 52
The hunt is nothing like the ones in Hoss. Hunting in the Arctic meant movement, cold air, cramping muscles, and tracks in the snow that told me when I was close and when it was over.
This hunt is the opposite.
It’s staring at screens instead of the ground, waiting for information that never reveals its tracks, and sitting still until my bones ache.
There’s no scent, nothing tangible to chase.
Just long, grinding days stacked on days with nothing to show for it except new folders, new maps, and new theories that collapse under their own logic.
I spend most of my time in Monty’s den, a room built of power, dark wood, and screens lining the walls.
Monty doesn’t leave my side, his presence steady and terrifyingly focused, pulling strings, burning through favors, and organizing alliances. Everything he did when Frankie was missing.
He’s doing all the same shit for Dove.
Private bush planes scour Alaska. Coast Guard District 17 sweeps the shoreline.
The ABI keeps every department talking, and private investigators fan out across the country, running facial recognition through public cameras, transit hubs, gas stations, grocery stores, anywhere Dove’s face might appear.
Every morning starts the same. No sightings. No hits. No breakthroughs. No proof Dove Rath is alive or dead. No proof Jag Rath took her. No proof he didn’t.
The Raths evaporated in open air. In daylight. Not a single camera in Sitka caught their exits. The few witnesses didn’t see more than a blur.
Declan is dead. The guards are dead. All stabbed silently and up close.
I keep circling that part.
How did one man get the jump on four trained, armed guards?
How did he escape his room without alerting them?
Why kill Declan, an innocent bystander, who had nothing to do with any of this?
Every answer spawns worse questions.
And denial.
Logic lines Jag up dead center. Clean escape. Decoy. Timing too precise to be luck. When we lay it all out on a board, he’s the only piece that fits without forcing it.
But my gut won’t cooperate. As monstrous as Jag can be, he has rules.
In all of Dove’s stories, Jag’s violence had a line. He took out her abusers, molesters, and rapists. Not once did she tell me a story where he killed someone who didn’t deserve it.
Declan doesn’t fit. He was harmless and kind. He didn’t hurt anyone. Didn’t threaten anyone. He wasn’t in Jag’s way.
Jag doesn’t kill innocent people.
Either everything I think I know about him is wrong, or an enemy grabbed both of them.
That thought scares me more than believing Jag did it.
My heartbeat hurts. Every thump feels personal. I lie awake listening to it, half-expecting it to give up before I do.
I can tell Monty’s worried about me. Every time his eyes land on me, he chews the inside of his cheek as if my appearance makes him uneasy.
Maybe it’s the heavy eyeliner packed under my eyes.
Or all the black layers I wear even when the house is warm.
I want distance. I want to look like someone nobody should try to comfort.
Every night, when the den empties and Monty tells me to get some rest, I don’t.
I go to the guest house and pace until my feet hurt. I smoke until my throat feels raw. One after another, I light them and watch them burn, lost in my head.
Sometimes I play the sax.
The sound comes out wrong, too loud, or too thin. I don’t care. I play until my fingers cramp, until my chest tightens, until the ache in my ribs syncs up with the noise. The notes wander. They don’t resolve. They just exist and hurt.
Other times, I sit on the floor and draw.
Emo Disney stuff. Ruined princesses. Dark castles. Big-eyed characters with smeared makeup and crooked crowns. I don’t sketch happily-ever-afters. I sketch aftermaths.
A week passes.
Seven days since Declan’s murder.
Seven days since the decoy.
Seven days since Dove smiled like she was safe.
Rage comes in waves. So does despair. Sometimes they overlap, and I can’t tell which one is steering. I snap at people. Then I go quiet for hours. I replay my last conversation with Jag until it loses shape.
He said he was leaving.
He said he was leaving Dove with me.
He was convincing on both counts.
I ricochet between blaming Jag and defending him like it’s a full-time job.
Some days, I line him up in my head and pull the trigger without flinching. Other days, I tear the case apart trying to prove he couldn’t have done it. Today is one of those days. Today, Jag doesn’t feel like the villain.
Monty sits across from me in the den, quiet and patient, watching me spiral through the same arguments I had yesterday and the day before. He doesn’t interrupt. He just lets it happen, recognizing the pattern because he’s lived it.
“This is what it was like for you.” I lean back on the couch. “When Frankie disappeared.”
“Yeah.” He reclines beside me, raking a hand through his perfect hair, disheveling it. “I didn’t know if she left me or if someone took her. I ran both versions into the ground. Tore myself apart trying to make one of them stick.”
I look at him, at the man who, despite all his money and power, couldn’t brute-force certainty out of the worst moment of his life.
“I didn’t know which truth would hurt less.” He releases a breath. “So I lived in both for a while.”
“What stopped you?”
“My gut. Deep down, I knew Frankie wouldn’t hurt me like that, no matter how much I deserved it. If she left on her own, she would’ve given me proof of life. Once I accepted that, I knew what I was dealing with.”
Something in my chest shifts. Not relief. Not clarity. Just alignment.
I think about the pain in Jag’s eyes when he said he had to see Dove one last time.
“It’s easier to believe Jag took her.” I drum my fingers on my thigh. “In that scenario, they’re both alive and safe. Out of my reach, sure, but I know he would protect her with his life and never physically harm her.”
“But?”
“But my gut tells me this isn’t betrayal. Someone took them both.”
Monty watches me land there and gives a slow nod. He knows the cost of that conclusion and what it means.
If someone took them—someone who kills innocent people—then Jag and Dove are somewhere bad.
Maybe being tortured.
Maybe already dead.
Grief rises without warning and punches me in the throat. My breath locks up then breaks apart. I try to swallow it down, clenching my jaw and sucking air through my nose. But the pain keeps coming, scrabbling its way up from somewhere too deep.
The first sob rips out, cracking my ribs. The next one erupts louder and wetter. My hands curl into fists on my thighs, nails digging in, trying to anchor myself, but I’m slipping, body shaking, and I lose it, right there in front of my father.
I hate it. Hate how weak and small I feel.
Until his arms envelop me, reminding me I’m safe with him.
He hugs me like it’s the most natural thing in our lives, one hand at the back of my neck, the other around my shoulder, as if he can somehow bear part of it for me.
I lean into him, shaking and crying like the world just ended, because maybe it fucking has.
It takes a while to pull myself back together, to slow the sobs and breathe without breaking. When I finally lift my head, my nose is wet, and makeup streaks my face.
But he’s not judging me. Not a hint of disappointment in his eyes. Just steady warmth.
“You’re strong.” He grips my shoulder and squeezes. “Stronger than I’ve ever been.”
I blink at him, stunned.
Montgomery Strakh, the man who built a kingdom out of nothing, who clawed his way through grief and guilt and the ruins of our wrecked family, is calling me strong?
“Jag didn’t do this.” My throat seals around a lump. “He’s violent, obsessive, and possessive as hell. But he didn’t take Dove.”
Monty nods, like he’s been waiting for me to get here.
“Jag knows his enemies.” He straightens and shuffles through the papers on the coffee table. “He would’ve been prepared for this, maybe even saw them coming.”
“His computer lair.” I wipe my face with my sleeve, heart squeezing painfully. “I asked him about it once, asked how he hacked private cameras and where he kept all his equipment. All he said was blue princess.”
“Dove?”
“I guess? Knowing Jag, he would’ve installed more cameras, hidden cameras that feed into a hidden location.”
“The team did a camera sweep in both shops and didn’t find anything.”
“Let’s do another one.” I stand. “Maybe they missed something.”
An hour later, I stand in the tattoo shop, refusing to let myself think about what happened here.
Instead, I focus on the ceilings, corners, and angles Jag might’ve used.
Monty and Carl set up at the front counter, flanked by two of their best tech guys. Ex-NSA or some high-speed shit.
Theo, the tech with wire-frame glasses and zero personality, powers on his equipment as he explains RF spectrum analysis and frequency anomalies. The taller, meaner-looking tech, Ross, waves a sleek black scanner across the ceiling.
I leave them to their toys and run my hand along the drywall, tracing the edges of the fresh panels Jag installed. He built this room just for me.
Or did he build it to hide recording equipment that no one would find?
“No standard camera signatures so far.” Ross moves deeper into the shop.
“Considering we still haven’t cracked Jag’s firewall,” Theo says, “I doubt any of our equipment will detect his.”
“Jag doesn’t use standard.” Carl types on his laptop. “That means we’re not looking for what’s common. We’re looking for what’s off.”
“Off how?” I ask.
“Wrong paint match. A seam that runs too clean. A screw that isn’t factory issue.” Carl looks up from his screen. “If there’s a camera in here, it’s probably watching us.”
I hadn’t considered that.
For half a second, I imagine finding the lens, staring straight into it, and telling him to bring her back.
Then the thought evaporates.
If there is a hidden camera, Jag isn’t watching it.
Because he can’t.