Chapter 23 Dom
DOM
I was solidly on Autumn’s trail now.
In that poolside photo, what gave her away wasn’t her face but the blur in the corner. Half-obscured by sun flare and a crooked elbow was a word printed on a faded blue banner: Boise.
And it was enough.
The next morning, I was on the road before sunrise. I drove the entire stretch with the kind of tunnel vision that made me forget what music was. My only soundtrack was the snap of her name echoing through my skull. Autumn, Autumn, Autumn.
I found the pool.
The same one from the picture. It was indoor and local, with vending machines humming louder than the front desk.
I asked around.
I got a few shrugs and some dodged glances. One girl pretended she didn’t hear me, even though I was standing two feet from her.
Finally, a lifeguard barely old enough to shave offered a name. He said he’d seen her once. Months back. “Real fast swimmer,” he added.
That’s when the defense line formed. A group of young women—tight circle, clipped answers, and one with a glare sharp enough to peel paint off a locker.
“She’s not around,” the tall one said.
“You need to leave,” another snapped.
“If you keep asking, we’ll report you,” the third added, flipping her phone like a threat.
So much for being taught about stranger danger.
I could’ve pushed harder, flashed a badge I didn’t carry, or leaned on authority I’d long since walked away from. But I didn’t want her to be found that way.
Still, I left with one thing I hadn’t had before.
Her name was real. Autumn Jones.
This time, I didn’t start with a screen. I hit the streets and did the same drill I’d done in Cheyenne, knocking on every Jones household I could find. Boise was three times the size, and it came with three times the weird.
One guy opened the door wearing ski goggles, and another asked if I was there for the séance.
But not one of them had seen or known her.
By the time I got back to my truck, I was strung out and sweat-slicked, my nerves scraped raw. I yelled straight into the wheel. Two elderly women across the lot hurried off like I was waving a knife around.
If you dig in mud, you get mud.
My old man used to say that. And for once, he might’ve been right. Not that I was about to admit it.
Because this wasn’t just mud.
This was an obsession. A slow bleed I couldn’t staunch.
I’d wasted days and burned fuel. Boise hadn’t given me a shred of progress except sore knuckles from knocking on too many wrong doors.
And I realized something else. If she had trained or competed here, she might’ve lived anywhere. Meridian. Caldwell. Kuna. Any of the small towns dotting this side of Idaho.
The whole damn state had just become my crime scene.
I scrubbed a hand down my face as my migraine started to dismantle me. Another day was over, and I returned to the motel empty-handed.
My migraine had loosened its grip by morning. But the rest of it was still a mess.
Maybe it was time to stop and let the law do its job. Let justice find her. Let my over-caffeinated brain accept what my heart refused to.
She wasn’t mine.
I should go home.
Home.
That word didn’t fit. Not yet.
I’d bought that place because I was supposed to be settling in, planting roots, and making a life in Buffaloberry Hill. If I were being honest with myself, I’d imagined her in it too.
But the walls were still bare, still undecided.
Moss green or cream. We’d made a bet, and she’d won.
Right then, I would’ve done anything to honor it, to let her pick the color, and to watch her grin with that little victory face she made when she knew she had me.
It had felt like we were sharing the space, like I was already sharing my life with her.
Now, I wasn’t sure if I wanted moss green after all.
“Get your shit together,” I cursed.
Going home wouldn’t mean comfort. I could let justice find her. But justice didn’t know what it was looking for.
So I did what I was trained to do and got rid of the mud.
Stick to the facts. Act like a lawyer.
No bias. No what-ifs. No bleeding heart.
I didn’t know where to restart. But if history had taught me anything, it was this: Not knowing was when I got sharp, and I was never sharper than when I ran.
So I laced up my runners and hit the pavement. In my head, I rewound everything. Every moment with her. Every detail.
Something about Idaho triggered a recollection. But not Boise. It was somewhere else. Or something else.
My phone.
She’d used my phone at the hospital. Afterward, I remembered seeing a map search I didn’t recognize, but I’d dismissed it at the time.
I stopped running, my breath jagged as I unlocked my phone. One swipe at my map app, then another. I pulled up the history. And there it was.
An address in Idaho Falls.
Before I could second-guess it, I was sprinting back to the motel and taking the quickest shower of my life. Then I grabbed my keys, wallet, and bag and was out the door.
The map app stayed open, whispering directions. Signs flew past, unread, and the sky recomposed, the light changing in patches. Somewhere along the way, I noticed I hadn’t blinked in miles.
But I reached the house in what felt like a blink anyway.
The house had fresh green siding, almost the moss green shade she’d once suggested. She’d meant it back then, even if I hadn’t realized just how much. Maybe this was the place she’d been picturing all along.
White trim, neat lawn, and sun spilling across the steps.
I climbed them and knocked.
Seconds dragged.
Then, I saw movement behind the door.
I straightened, my pulse threading tight.
She owed me more than silence.
She owed me the decency of looking me in the eye when she left.
And now that I was here, it wouldn’t be to scold her. It wouldn’t be to demand or punish.
It would be to see what was left after the lie.