Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
VANCE
Where the hell was my wallet? I patted my jeans pocket for the tenth time, then scanned the bedroom again. It wasn’t on the nightstand. I’d put it on the nightstand. The damn thing couldn’t have sprouted legs and walked away.
“For fuck’s sake.” I didn’t have time to search for my wallet when I needed to get on the road, but before I could get on the road, I needed my fucking wallet.
“Tiff,” I hollered, pinching the bridge of my nose.
She emerged from the hallway and stood in the doorway, hazel eyes still blazing from our argument. “What?”
“My wallet. Have you seen it?”
She pursed her lips.
“Tiff,” I clipped. Did she really think if she kept me here long enough, I’d change my mind?
She huffed and fished my wallet from her back pocket. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it on the bed so it landed beside my backpack and suitcase.
I gritted my teeth, holding back a snide comment. “Thanks.”
“You’re really going.” She crossed her arms over her chest, her nostrils flaring.
“I have to go.” I swept up my wallet, tucking it in my own pocket, then slung my backpack over a shoulder. The zipper’s seams were stretched to the max. The same was true for my suitcase. Not having any idea how long I’d be in Montana, I’d erred on the side of too much rather than not enough.
“I mean it, Vance. I won’t be here when you get back.”
She’d said the same earlier after I’d told her I was going to Montana. It hadn’t really surprised me, probably because I’d been expecting it for, well . . . a long time.
“You don’t have anything to say?” she asked.
No. No, I didn’t. And my silence only heightened her frustration.
She threw a hand in the air. “When are you going to give this up?”
“Never,” I whispered.
Until my dying day, I would never give up this search. Everyone else had stopped looking for Cormac. Everyone else had abandoned Norah and the girls. They deserved justice. They deserved vengeance.
There was no giving up.
“You won’t find him,” she said.
“I might.”
“He’s. Gone.” She punched each word, like volume alone would make me believe them.
He wasn’t gone. That son of a bitch didn’t get to be gone.
Maybe this lead would turn into nothing, just like every other lead I’d followed in the past four years. But if there was even the slightest chance I could catch Cormac’s trail, then I’d take it.
I hefted my suitcase off the mattress, moving for the door, but Tiff shifted and blocked my path.
“I can’t do this anymore.” Her chin began to quiver. “I can’t stay here and wait while you chase your demons.”
“Then don’t.”
When we’d first gotten together, Tiff had encouraged me to go. But at some point in the past three years, she’d become just like everyone else. She wanted me to let it go and move on with my life.
I couldn’t move on. I wouldn’t. And if she didn’t understand that, well . . .
“Leave the keys on the counter.” We were over. We’d been over. It was time to stop pretending like we had a future together.
“That’s it?” Her eyes flooded. “I tell you I’m moving out and you ask me to leave the keys on the counter?”
Yes. “I need to go,” I said, jerking my chin for her to get out of the way.
She shifted, just enough for me to slide past, then followed me down the hallway. “You never would have done this before the shooting.”
My jaw clenched. “This has nothing to do with the shooting.”
“Vance.”
I sighed, turning to face her. “What?”
“Please don’t go.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Stay. Stay with me.”
This was why we were over.
If she truly loved me, she’d never ask me to stay.
I set my suitcase and backpack on the floor, then put my hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
I was sorry that I wasn’t the man she needed. I was sorry that I couldn’t be the man she’d expected. I was sorry that I didn’t love her too.
“I love you.” A tear fell down her cheek.
I didn’t catch it.
“Bye, Tiff.” I stepped away as a sob escaped her mouth. Then I collected my bags and, without a backward glance, walked to the garage. My gun was already loaded in the glove box of my truck, so with my things in the back seat, I climbed behind the wheel and took off.
Maybe I should have hurt, knowing that Tiff would be gone when I got home. Instead, I felt . . . relieved.
Tiff was a good woman who’d helped me through a hard period in my life. She’d filled a void, for a time. She’d made me laugh when I’d thought it impossible. But she deserved a man who loved her entirely.
That man wasn’t me.
Maybe she was right. Maybe this endless search for Cormac was ruining my life. It sure as hell had taken a toll on my job. But I wasn’t going to stop. So I put Coeur d’Alene in my rearview mirror and raced along the interstate toward Montana.
It was a three-hour trip to Quincy, meaning if I hurried, I’d arrive before dark with time to poke around town and get my bearings. I’d already called ahead for a hotel room, booking it for a week. With any luck, I’d pick up Cormac’s trail by then.
This lead was the closest I’d ever been to finding that slippery bastard. It had been two days since the APB had been issued, and while two days was plenty for him to disappear, maybe he’d gotten complacent. Maybe he wouldn’t feel the need to rush. Or maybe he hadn’t left Montana at all.
I’d spent four years chasing Cormac Gallagher. From Washington to Utah to Oregon to Colorado, the man had proved impossible to find. He’d beaten me at every turn. But this time around, something felt different.
How long had he been in Montana? Why had he come so close to Idaho? Had he been hiding right under my nose for months? Years?
Or would this turn out to be another dead end?
Three years ago, I’d followed a lead to Colorado.
Police had reported a man matching Cormac’s description.
Red hair. Brown eyes. Same build and height.
But that man hadn’t had a scarred cheek, and when I’d found him hiding in a ramshackle house in the mountains outside of Fort Collins, I’d turned him over to the authorities, then come home and drowned myself in a bottle of cheap whiskey.
Six months later, I’d followed a lead to Utah. Another bust. Four months later, I’d been in Washington. Three months after that, Oregon. I’d spent four years traipsing around the Pacific Northwest, following any lead.
Chances were, my trip to Montana would be another wasted trip. Except the all-points bulletin from Quincy had clearly described a man with a scar. None of the others had given that much detail.
This time, it would be different. It had to be different.
I pulled out my phone to call Dad. The minute it started ringing through the truck’s speakers, my grip tightened on the wheel. Go to voicemail.
“Hello,” he answered.
I sighed. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hold on a sec.” There was a rustling noise in the background. Then came the sound of a door opening and closing. “What’s going on?”
There was an echo, like he’d closed himself in the garage.
That was usually how it sounded when we’d talk. Either he’d disappear to the garage or he’d go outside so he could talk to me where Mom wouldn’t overhear.
How had it come to this? How had I become the villain?
“I’m heading to Montana. Might be gone a week or two,” I told him, knowing he wouldn’t ask why or how long I’d be gone.
Asking too many questions might cross that invisible line drawn between me and my family. Besides, Dad knew why I left town. And like Tiff, he thought I should have moved on years ago.
“All right,” he murmured.
“I left in a hurry. Would you mind taking the trash to the curb on Wednesday?”
“What about Tiff?”
“She’s moving out.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Okay.”
“And would you mind grabbing my mail every few days? Just so it doesn’t pile up.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Yep.” He ended the call.
These stinted, abrupt conversations had become normal. And somehow, that was my fault.
Next time I left, I’d call a friend to check on the house.
I set my phone aside and focused on the road, taking in the landscape along the way. Plenty of mountains. Dense evergreen forests. This part of Montana wasn’t all that different from Idaho. Maybe that was why Cormac had returned. He’d wanted a taste of home.
The only thing he deserved to taste was three squares a day from a prison cafeteria.
Fuck, but I hoped this lead was something real. Hope was a dangerous game for a man like me, especially where Cormac was concerned. But with every passing mile, it stirred, building and swelling in my very bones.
By the time I arrived in Quincy, my muscles were jittery. My fingers drummed on the steering wheel as the highway slowed, turning into Main Street. As I eased down the road, I soaked in the small town like a sponge.
The Eloise Inn, the hotel where I’d booked a room, was the tallest building in sight, interrupting the jagged mountain horizon in the distance. Businesses, restaurants and a couple of bars filled the downtown area.
The lampposts that lit the sidewalks were wrapped in twinkle lights. Store windows were decked out in autumn décor, pumpkins and potted mums and vibrant leaves.
As I passed a hardware store, I made a mental note to stop by and pick up a map of the local area. Digital maps and GPS worked for some, but I’d always preferred paper.
My mentor had taught me that.
He’d also taught me that time was critical. If a suspect had too much of a head start, catching up became impossible. The APB had been posted Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, it was Sunday. But two days was faster than any of the other leads I’d found.
Maybe Cormac thought that after four years, the world had forgotten about his crimes. Maybe he’d gotten comfortable wherever it was he was hiding. Maybe if he’d built a shelter, settled into the area, he might not be as quick to leave.
A string of maybes. That was all I had.
It would have to be enough.