Chapter 21 Dom
DOM
I’d learned a lot about Autumn and the things that made her her. Things like her laughter, her fire, and the way she argued over house colors as if we were already a couple.
But I hadn’t learned the truth.
And now, I had to.
The poster in Ms. O’Donnell’s window was burned into my brain—Autumn’s face staring back at me, next to the words Have you seen this person?
She was wanted for an armed robbery along the Blodgett Pass Trail. The victim hadn’t been named, but the timing lined up too neatly with the disappearance of Deborah Sinclair.
And now Autumn had Deborah’s dog.
What the hell was I supposed to do with that?
Deborah was about Autumn’s age. Had they known each other? Same school? Shared a history? I’d seen stranger motives in court. A grudge. A rivalry. A love triangle, perhaps? Fighting over a boy has ruined more lives than people like to admit.
Had something like that spiraled?
Or was I supposed to believe that Autumn had killed someone?
Nothing fit together, no matter which theory I tried.
Autumn had been reckless, yes, but there was a difference between being reckless and being a murderer.
If she were guilty, then she wouldn’t get away with it.
Because no matter what else I felt—and God help me, I still felt too much—I couldn’t let that part of me go. The part that needed justice. The part that still believed in right and wrong.
On the other hand, I wasn’t just looking for her as a lawyer.
I was looking for her like a man chasing a fever he didn’t want cured—burning, delirious, and glad for it. As long as she was in it.
And she owed me more than silence. She left me here as if I were a worthless lamppost. I never even saw her go.
But most of all, I missed her. Fucking pathetic, but I did.
An incoming call buzzed across my screen.
“Noah,” I said, doing my best to sound like the version of me he knew.
“Hey, how’s that cowboy apprenticeship going?”
“Stalled.”
“I figured. You’re more pinstripes than plaid.”
I huffed a laugh. “Says the guy who owns both.”
He scoffed. “Anyway, I was thinking. You should swing by The Lazy Moose. Claire, Maya, and Riley are on kitchen duty. It’s gonna be a feast. And you know Reko’s been moping without you.”
“Your giant teddy bear of a dog?”
“He misses your legal advice.”
I smiled despite myself. “Tell him I bill by the belly rub.”
“Then come earn your paycheck.”
“I want to. I do. Just…not today.”
There was a pause. “Dom? What’s going on?”
I could’ve thrown out something easy. I could have said I wasn’t feeling great or some other half-hearted excuse. But this was Noah. He’d see right through it.
“It’s a girl.”
A beat of silence ensued, then he gasped, “Oh damn, is it grilling time already?”
That earned a real laugh. But I couldn’t keep up the charade. “It’s not like that. It’s complicated.”
He sobered instantly. “How bad?”
“Bad enough that I’m dodging potlucks and hiding out like some lovesick idiot.”
“Shit. Sorry, man.”
“You didn’t do anything. I just…I didn’t think I’d end up following in your footsteps when it comes to high-stakes romance.”
“Ah. Life, eh? But I’m here for you, man. I mean it. You need anything?”
“I wish it were something you could fix.”
“All right. Well, I’m here if that changes.”
“I know.” I rubbed my temple. “Thanks, Noah. I’ll call you later.”
“You’d better. And Dom?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t disappear.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Not until I look her in the eye and get the truth.”
I forced myself back into motion. Thinking as a lawyer meant starting with what I knew. And right now? That wasn’t much.
Her last name was as common as anything. Jones.
And she’d told me she was from Cheyenne.
Cheyenne, Wyoming
I’d already run this search. But this time, I wasn’t doing it like a small-town armchair sleuth.
This time, I was in the city she said she came from. I was parked in the dappled shade of a tired street tree. This was a place with churches on corners and middle school mascots painted on fences.
Maybe I wouldn’t find anything new, but sometimes a change of scenery could shake something loose. I was clinging to that hope. Hell, I’d crossed county lines for it.
It wasn’t a waste of time.
Because I needed to feel the place. The air, the rhythm of it. Maybe that’s what would break it open. My instincts worked better when my boots were on the ground.
The AC ticked low as I pulled up the same searches I’d tried before.
Autumn Jones. Female. Early-twenties. Cheyenne, Wyoming.
No license. No known relatives. She’d once called her mom on my phone if she’d told the truth. The number had vanished from the call log before I even thought to save it, so even back then, she’d been careful.
The only number I had for her was the prepaid burner I’d picked up from a gas station outside Buffaloberry Hill. No trace, no contract, no hope.
I searched her name across every social platform, forum, and group network I could access. I was slower this time. Just in case I’d skimmed past something last night, with sleep dragging at my focus.
I narrowed parameters, adjusted filters, and changed location tags. I even broadened the net, checking for first name only, potential nicknames, and usernames that might’ve been hers.
A few came close enough to fool the algorithm, but I knew her face like a man memorizes the stars that guided him home.
That heart-shaped softness and those clear, clever eyes that stared straight past the years I spent looking away.
A face that didn’t beg for attention but rather challenged me to look deeper. None of these girls was her.
So I hadn’t missed anything after all.
There were no photos of her, no comments, and no posts. Not even birthday mentions and friend tags. General searches were useless. Her name might as well have been wallpaper.
Still, I kept going.
This time, I dug into local utility and lease records for Cheyenne. I used to fly through these back when I was in court five days a week, cross-referencing tenant data and pulling bills from city systems like it was muscle memory. Now, I fumbled a little. Lagging. But still thorough.
People with roots left trails—bills, rent receipts. But someone her age? It was harder. So I wasn’t surprised when Cheyenne came up empty. No water. No gas. No electric. No rent. No proof that a key had ever turned for her here.
Grasping now, I logged into Whitepages. It was useless, maybe, but I wasn’t ready to stop.
There were a few hits for “Jones.” I’d have to try because there was a strong possibility she might still be living with her mother.
The first house belonged to a nurse who hadn’t swum a lap in her life.
She looked at me like I’d asked whether she believed in mermaids.
The second was a guy with a Saint Bernard and a restraining order against his ex.
He cracked the door but didn’t take the chain off.
Then there was a woman who’d just renamed herself Autumn after falling in love with a fae prince in a fantasy novel.
No one had heard of my Autumn Jones.
The last place was all porch light and cinnamon. An older woman opened the door and smiled at me.
“Oh, honey,” she said, “come in. You look like you need something more than directions.”
She offered me sweet tea and handed me a flyer for Tuesday’s Women’s Circle. I thanked her, declined, and walked away with her gentle concern tucked tight between my ribs.
Back in the truck, the cab felt tighter. It was not hot, just wrong.
Tracking people used to be easier. You could follow the trail of check-ins, public friend lists, and even pet accounts.
But this new generation seemed to have been raised in a world that taught them not to overshare. Or worse, how to vanish without leaving so much as a fingerprint.
And Autumn? She didn’t just disappear.
She’d left a lie in her place.
And I, stupid, trusting, and slow to learn, had taken it like a fucking gift.
She’d made up Cheyenne. God help me, I prayed she hadn’t lied about her name.
If she had, if “Autumn Jones” was just another carefully placed misdirection, I didn’t know what I’d do. Our connection had been real. I wasn’t delusional, and unless she was a world-class psychopath, no one could fake that kind of closeness for so long.
Out on the street, two boys pedaled past on bikes, yelling about dinner. A scruffy dog trailed them, its tongue lolling, ears flapping.
So simple. That kind of moment probably wouldn’t register anywhere. But it made me wonder if the universe kept records of things like that, like an archive.
“Huh…” I muttered, thinking about my own archive.
It was mostly full of courtroom scraps and childhood debris. And now, maybe memories of her. Or maybe I’d just clear it all when I was done. Like emptying a cache.
Cache.
I froze. There was such a thing online. Why hadn’t I thought of it?
I opened my laptop again, my fingers moving faster now. I searched cached versions of group albums and swimming club galleries, digging through the corners of cyberspace most people didn’t even know existed.
There.
I found two photos. They were not tagged and not linked. But one caption read, “Autumn, you crushed it.” And the other said, “Pool days with Autumn.”
There was no last name. No location.
But her face?
Undeniable.
That smile, those taut swimmer’s shoulders, the swing of blonde hair I’d seen vanishing into the river, and those eyes. Even frozen in a photo, they hit me dead on.
Both shots were poolside. There were no obvious landmarks, no banners strung up, and no team names stamped across swim caps.
But then something drew me in. It was hidden in the background, close to the edge of the frame, blurred and small. The kind of detail most people would miss, unless they were looking for something.
I leaned closer.
“Okay, Otter. You left a trail.”