Chapter 41
The sun is setting behind us. Pink light feathers over the majestic mountains of the Great Divide across the lake. The aspens are just beginning to turn, gold and yellow leaves making a collage at the base of the lower hills, their brilliant leaves glimmering in the glow of sunset.
I’m not entirely sure why I’ve agreed to the stroll, but perhaps it’s because it feels beyond good to have someone recognize just how difficult the past few days have been. And remain.
One of the couples who walked down to the beach is standing on the shore and looking out, taking in the scenery of the peaks reflected perfectly in the lake. The others are a little farther down, examining rocks on the shoreline.
“This is why I live here. I fell for it all a long time ago when I’d spend summers with my dad. He loved being in the woods. There’s something about it all that reminds you to not take yourself too seriously. That we all have the same short . . .”
“Same short?”
“Time on earth, I was going to say, but that sounded a little too ominous, under my circumstances.”
“I know. I was going to say that you’re one lucky lady, but I rethought that, too.”
“That’s okay. But you know, luck has nothing to do with it. A lot of people don’t get to live in a place like this out of luck. It’s a choice, and with it come a bunch of sacrifices, like making good money.” I laugh. “And getting a good Pad Thai.”
“True,” he says.
We lock eyes. His face is ruddy in the light and cold wind. I peer out at the lake’s surface rippling from a breeze, shattering the smooth, picture-perfect reflection of the peaks. I wrap my arms around my waist and shiver.
Every detail pops beyond vivid. Every fresh scent of pine, aspen, wet rock, and distant chimney smoke claims me.
I wonder if having your life threatened makes it all zing to life.
Or if it’s simply the magic of Glacier Park.
I’ve forgotten how when you get around such immense surroundings, your senses naturally heighten.
Or maybe it’s the addition of Jeremy and his good-natured intensity, and the way his light-brown eyes, practically golden with their flecks of amber, are taking me in when I look his way again.
“You’re cold.” He steps closer, puts an arm around me, and squeezes me gently.
A static charge makes me stiffen. I check that the couple is still close. They are. I move my right hand to my gun. Habit. Or . . . ?
But he feels strong, and after a second, I let myself have this one moment. I lean into him, go slack. It’s been a very long few days.
I look away from the towering peaks on the north end of the lake and face him. His eyes are the color of pecans in the pale light. My attraction to him is undeniable. But I wonder, if I were to date someone like him, how long would it take before he saw through me? Saw who I really am?
“I do have a thing or two I should confess. One big thing in particular.”
I had no intention of saying these words. It’s as if the past hours have teed them up in my larynx, ready for them to leap out.
“Yeah?” He takes his eyes off the water and turns to me.
For a moment I want to take them back, swallow them down, but then something wilts in me.
“I’m willing to tell you about them, about it, if you’re still interested.
” The words in the crystal-clear, pure air shock even me.
Where are they coming from? I’ve kept these things to myself forever.
Why now? Why him? A journalist of all people?
I know why. Besides wanting to save my own skin from the Confession Artist, I can’t deny that the pressure is getting to me.
It’s too big, like it’s all going to blow if I don’t release a tiny bit.
I envision a pressure cooker with all kinds of knobs at the top, and my hand reaches for one and twists it ever so slightly to release a small hiss.
And telling him, in an odd way, seems easier than sharing it with someone I’m close to, like opening up to a bartender or a hairdresser instead of your own family.
But because Jeremy’s a journalist, I’m not entirely positive I will follow through or, if I do, exactly how much I’ll share, but surely I can expose some of it, maybe how I felt about dragging Sophie along camping.
“I most definitely am. I’m in town for two more days, and tomorrow’s your last day to get something out there, right?”
I’m not sure how I feel about the excitement in his eyes . . . Predator zeroing in on his prey? Or decent, helpful guy who’s happy I might finally come clean?
“I have a few things I need to take care of first.”
“Okay,” he says. “What’s changed your mind? You haven’t had a scare like that drug rep guy, Mooney, did out in the woods?”
I pause. My breath hitches. How does he know about that? I want to ask him, but I stop myself. My mind whirls. I try not to appear surprised or confused as I tick through it.
Tim Mooney did confess along with a bunch of other men who looked like the sketch. And yes, he contacted the police, both of which a good journalist could figure out.
But the scare? Tim Mooney confessing because he became frightened near the end of his six days and felt compelled to divulge more . . . that was not public information. Only the cops in Spokane and the FBI know that, and there’s no way they’d share that with Jeremy or any other journalist.
And clearly they haven’t, or it would be all over the internet already.
I pull away from him as naturally as I can, so it doesn’t seem abrupt.
I have an immediate strong urge to get to my car and drive as far away from him as I can.
This guy goes from warm and fuzzy to cold and creepy faster than a spinning top.
I’m not sure what to make of it. Alderson’s voice rings in my ears: Trust no one.
But I tell myself to be cool, that that would be a gross overreaction to something very inconclusive.
I could ask him how he knows. Right here, right now.
But if he knows because he was the guy stalking Mooney out in those woods, there’s no way he’s admitting it to me. Then I’ll have played my hand.
As nonchalantly as I can, I shuffle a few steps away from him.
I keep myself focused on what’s before me: the blue, brown, and wine-colored river rocks below the clear water, the strong breeze ruffling its surface, the peaks on the far end of the lake, the leaves on the cottonwoods beginning to yellow in the early fall, the weight of my gun tucked into my jeans.
Jeremy picks up a small, smooth pebble and side-tosses it so that it skips a good six or seven times across the water.
Again, so normal. So natural. His muscles at ease under his fleece. But is it a facade? I take the opportunity to slide farther away from him.
He turns and looks at me funny for a second, then smiles at me in his carefree way. “You’re antsy to get going, aren’t you?”
I force a sweet smile back, but my stomach feels like it’s twisted itself inside out. Whatever feelings I was having for Jeremy have turned to a syrupy sludge churning in my guts. Again, there’s nothing definitive, but still, it’s a significant detail I don’t like at all.
I kick myself for being so stupid. How could I trust this stranger who’s been on my back since Dallas? Since the day I saw the sketch?
“So, when would you like for me to interview you?”
“I’ll let you know soon,” I say, “but right now I should get going, and you need to make those calls.” I wave to the parking lot. “After you.”
He starts back toward our vehicles, his feet shifting on the pebbled beach as he takes each step. I follow a few paces behind, trying to navigate the rocks myself while not taking my eyes off him.