CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR VERA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
VERA
Guilt settled like a one-ton boulder in my gut as I tiptoed from Mateo’s bedroom. He was sound asleep, his hair a disheveled mess like it was every morning. I eased the door closed and froze, breath held and ears straining for any noise.
I was quiet in the mornings when I woke up first, but I wasn’t silent. Mateo never stirred as I made coffee or breakfast if Allie was hungry. It would be just my luck that today he’d wake up early too.
The house was still, not a sound came from beyond the door, so I eased backward and padded to Allie’s room, peeking in to make sure she was sound asleep too.
Her hair, like her father’s, was a wild mess of silky brown waves. Her lips were pursed, her eyelashes perfect crescents above her smooth cheeks.
I’d miss her this morning. I’d miss having alone time with her before Mateo woke up. But what I needed to do today couldn’t wait.
On hushed footsteps, I snuck to the cabin’s door and left as it clicked shut. With my keys in hand, I hurried across the porch, careful not to make a sound on the boards that creaked. And when I reached the last stair, I bounded to the dirt, jogging to my car in bare feet.
Robins tweeted in the morning light, greeting the dawn. A chill snaked down my spine as I climbed into my car and turned on the engine, eyes glued to the house, hoping like hell the door didn’t whip open as I reversed away.
I didn’t breathe until I was half a mile away. The pit in my stomach deepened with every minute. God, Mateo was going to be so pissed. My groan filled the car.
We hadn’t talked about Agent Swenson last night. When I’d made it to the cabin after work, Allie had been throwing a fit about her bath so I’d helped Mateo get her ready for bed. And once she was asleep, our mouths had been used for anything but talking.
But I was only delaying the inevitable.
Mateo would need to know the truth about Dad. Just . . . not yet.
Even Vance had agreed we needed to be thoughtful about what and how we shared now that the FBI was in Quincy. He’d come to the coffee shop yesterday about five minutes after Mateo had left. Luckily, it had been a slow afternoon, so we’d been able to sit down and replay Swenson’s visit.
Vance’s theory was that Swenson was a young, cocky agent trying to prove himself. What better way to impress his superiors than to solve a cold case that would make a media splash?
I’d been in enough headlines to last a lifetime. In Quincy, I was just Vera. I wasn’t that girl who’d survived that night.
Swenson would have to find a new case to crack because I refused to be in the news again. He’d find nothing in Montana. I’d make sure of it.
The sun’s first rays crept over the mountain horizon as I drove off the ranch.
By the time I made it to town, the sky was a kaleidoscope of blues and golds.
This was Dad’s favorite time of day. He always preferred the sunrise to sunset.
He said there was nothing more hopeful than the light of dawn, a fresh start on a new day to move past yesterday’s mistakes.
There was no such thing as moving on, especially for Dad. He’d forever be tied to his sins. Trapped by old horrors.
Maybe the same was true for me. Maybe it would never go away.
Maybe that was what we both deserved.
As the highway turned into Main Street, I slowed to a crawl, creeping toward The Eloise Inn. The hotel stood proudly as the focal point and tallest building in downtown Quincy. Most of the lights were off, guests still tucked into warm, plush beds.
But a few rooms had a golden glow from behind their drawn curtains, including the corner room on the third floor.
Agent Swenson’s room.
Lyla had gone to the hotel yesterday to visit Eloise. While she was there, she’d found out which room was Swenson’s.
An early riser. The clock on my dash showed it wasn’t quite five.
I looped around the back of the hotel to the parking lot. Swenson’s car, a simple black SUV with Washington plates, was in the second row. Its windshield was coated with dew. Lyla had gotten the make, model and plate number from Eloise too.
Good. He was still in the hotel.
So far, my morning was going to plan.
While Mateo had dozed soundly last night, I’d stared at the dark ceiling, unable to shut my mind off. I’d spent too many years living under a cloud of paranoia. Dad’s. My own. My irrational fears had reached their peak around two.
I’d convinced myself that Swenson had been outside, staking out the cabin, waiting for me to lead him to Dad. So I’d decided that before I left for the mountains today, first, I’d make sure I wasn’t being followed.
Vance said there was a slight risk that Swenson had gotten a warrant for my cell phone history. That he could have surveillance on my location and know about my hikes. Maybe he’d even bugged my car. But Vance had also said there wouldn’t be much probable cause for such extreme measures.
Yes, Dad was a fugitive. But the FBI had bigger cases than my father.
So as long as Swenson wasn’t physically following me, there wasn’t much likelihood he’d have a clue where I was going.
Relief came in a long breath and I aimed my car back to Main, putting Quincy in my rearview.
I took the familiar roads through the countryside toward Sable Peak.
Then, parking in the same place where I’d been leaving my car for weeks, I retrieved my pack from the trunk, secured it on my shoulders and started my climb.
The ground was slick with frost. The trees would keep the forest’s floor shaded for another few hours. My breath fogged in white clouds that billowed behind me, and even though it was chilly, my muscles warmed. Sweat beaded at my temples.
I stayed on the trail for a mile before I veered off in the direction I’d taken on Saturday. The day I thought I’d spotted Dad.
Was he here? Was that why Swenson had come to Montana? Was it possible that Dad had been seen by a hiker? Maybe he’d gone into town for something critical, like first aid supplies, and someone had recognized his red hair and face.
It wasn’t exactly easy for Dad to blend in with a six-inch scar running from eye to chin.
He’d earned it from a car accident of sorts.
He’d been in his twenties, out for a run, and came across a kid playing basketball in his driveway.
The ball had rolled into the street just as an oncoming car was passing by.
Dad had watched as the kid chased his ball, oblivious to the danger.
And so Dad had sprinted to the rescue, pushing the kid out of the way and taking the brunt of the hit.
I was proud of that scar. Even if the world thought he was evil, even if that scar only added to the illusion, my dad was a hero. To that boy he’d saved. And to me.
Off the trail, the hike was harder. I had to pick my way over rocks and branches, around bushes and trees. Dad had taught me how to hide footprints. When we’d been together, I’d jump over muddy patches. I’d walk on pine needles rather than dirt.
But today wasn’t about hiding my tracks. Today was about speed, so I took the easiest path through the underbrush.
Another hour and my legs were straining, my lungs burned. But I kept pushing hard until I reached the spot I’d been Saturday.
I took a moment to regain my breath, fishing my water bottle from my pack for a drink. Then I cupped my hands around my mouth and let out a piercing whistle.
Like always, silence was my only reply.
My shoulders sagged. Damn.
Of course he wasn’t out here. It was early. He was probably still wherever he’d made camp. And if he really was hiding from me, then he wouldn’t stick around this area. Still, I had to try. This was as good of a place to start as any.
I took the pocket knife from my backpack, opening it more carefully this time. And I found a nearby tree, ready to make the carving I hadn’t on Saturday. My initials with the date. Except just as I cut away a piece of loose bark, I hesitated.
What if Swenson came out here? He certainly didn’t seem like the hiking type, not with his starched clothes and polished shoes, but he might surprise me. Finding my footprints was one thing. That would be easy enough to chalk up to a simple hike.
But a deliberate marking? I didn’t need him stumbling upon a carving and deciding to stick around Montana for the foreseeable future.
So I closed my knife and tucked it away and, for good measure, whistled one more time.
“Are you out here?”
My mind knew the answer, even though my heart refused to believe it.
This was a foolish search by a foolish girl. Why couldn’t I let this go? Why couldn’t I just stop? Part of me wanted to keep going, keep looking. The day was young and I could cover a few more miles before I needed to turn back.
But the other part was so tired. So sick of these mountains. I could stay here alone. Or I could go back to the cabin and spend the day with Mateo and Allie.
I whistled.
Nothing.
I just wanted to go home.
On a sigh, I turned around, ready to hike back to the trail. But as I took my first step, I heard something different. Something not born from the woods.
A nearly inaudible whistle. The sound was so faint, it could have been a trick of the wind.
But my heart stopped, my entire body going still, as I listened.
More nothing.
It was probably just the wind. Maybe a strange bird. But just to be sure, I cupped my hands around my mouth for one last whistle, this one as loud as I could muster.
My pulse boomed so loudly in my ears that I barely heard the reply. But it was there, in the distance, a whistle just like mine.
“Oh my God. Dad!” I almost tripped on my next step but caught my balance. Then I ran, not uphill or deeper into the mountains, but in the direction from which I’d come, toward the trail. Maybe he’d come across my footprints in the frost. Maybe he’d followed me this way and was rushing to catch up.
I whistled again, my backpack bouncing on my shoulders as I hurried, a pace between a jog and a walk.
The replying whistle got louder. Clearer. Both of us moving in the right direction toward each other.
He was here. He had to be here. He was alive and coming for me.
“Dad!” I rounded a tree, jumped over an exposed root, then slowed to listen, my chest heaving.
The whistle. It was close.
I scanned the trees, searching past brush and branches. When the sound came again, I followed it to my right. My boots thudded on dirt and needles, sweat dripped down my spine, but I pushed harder. Faster. Until the whistle was so loud he had to be close.
I skirted a patch of thick underbrush, and there, standing in a gap between two thick evergreens, was the man who’d heard my call.
My heart stopped.
Mateo, blue eyes blazing with fury, stood with his arms crossed over his chest.
“What the fuck is going on, Vera?”