9. Mara
MARA
The lockbox sits in the middle of Sheriff Tate’s desk.
Everyone is staring at it.
No one can open it.
I fold my arms. “This is ridiculous.”
Doc leans against the wall beside the door, his freshly bandaged ribs hidden beneath a clean black T-shirt Wolf found upstairs before we went hunting for the lockbox.
“You're the one with the key.”
“The key is three blocks away.”
“Which makes staring at the box ineffective.”
I turn toward him. “Do you have another suggestion?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Stop staring at the box.”
Trigger laughs from the chair beside Sheriff Tate’s desk.
I point at him. “You have a concussion. You aren't supposed to be enjoying yourself.”
“I don't have a concussion.”
Sheriff Tate looks up from his phone. “The paramedic said you might.”
“He also said I should go to the hospital.”
“And yet here you are.”
Trigger adjusts the ice pack against his head. “I'm beginning to feel unwelcome.”
Wolf, standing behind him, says, “I can drive you to the hospital.”
“No.”
“I wasn't offering.”
Trigger looks over his shoulder. “Touch me, and I'll tell Rylie you hit me.”
Sheriff Tate slowly raises his head.
“My daughter?”
Wolf smiles. “I'd reconsider that threat.”
Trigger thinks about it.
“Good point.”
Despite everything that has happened tonight, I laugh.
A real laugh.
For a few seconds, the burned SUV, the bullets, Hampton, and Grant’s secrets disappear.
We're simply standing in Sheriff Tate’s office arguing over a fifteen-year-old lockbox nobody can open.
Then I look at the initials scratched into the bottom.
G.E.
Grant.
The laughter fades.
Doc notices.
He notices too much.
“We'll get the key in the morning.”
I look at him. “I'm going tonight.”
“No.”
There it is.
I stare at him.
“You've been in Eagle River for less than twelve hours. Have you always been this irritating, or is this something you developed with age?”
Wolf answers before Doc can.
“Always.”
Trigger nods. “Definitely always.”
Doc looks between them. “Whose side are you on?”
“Not yours,” Wolf says.
“Never yours,” Trigger adds.
For one second, Doc looks genuinely offended.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Sheriff Tate sets his phone down.
“No one is going to Mara’s house tonight.”
“But—”
He points at me.
I stop.
I hate that the finger still works.
“You heard Hampton,” Tate says. “He knows about the key. We have no idea where he is, and your house is the obvious place for him to watch.”
“He's wounded.”
“So is Doc, and apparently neither one of them has enough sense to stay put.”
Doc straightens. “Why am I involved in this?”
“Because you've tried to walk toward gunfire twice since you arrived.”
“Three times,” Wolf says.
Doc looks at him.
Wolf shrugs. “I was counting.”
Sheriff Tate continues. “Two deputies are watching Mara’s house. Nobody approaches until daylight.”
I look through the office window.
The storm has moved east, leaving the streets wet and shining beneath the lamps. Eagle River looks peaceful again.
It isn't.
Somewhere out there is a man who was supposed to have died eleven years ago.
And he knows my brother gave me a key.
“Fine.”
Four men stare at me.
“What?”
Sheriff Tate narrows his eyes. “That was too easy.”
“I agreed with you.”
“You never agree with me that quickly.”
“Maybe I'm growing.”
“No.”
I glare at him.
Wolf coughs into his fist.
Doc doesn't bother hiding the beginning of a smile.
I point at him. “You don't get to laugh.”
“I didn't.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
Trigger nearly falls out of his chair.
Doc's smile appears.
And there it is again.
That strange warmth in my chest.
I immediately look away.
This is not the time to notice Doc’s smile.
There will never be a good time to notice Doc’s smile.
That seems safer.
Sheriff Tate pulls Grant’s journal closer.
“We have three separate problems. Hampton. Captain Miller. And whatever Grant hid.”
“Four,” Doc says.
Tate looks at him.
“Mission Twenty-Three.”
The room quiets.
Wolf moves closer to the desk.
“Assuming Hampton wasn't lying.”
“He wasn't lying about Twenty-Three,” Trigger says.
Doc looks at him. “Why?”
Trigger removes the ice pack.
“Because I remember it.”
Everyone turns toward him.
Wolf frowns. “You just said there was no Mission Twenty-Three.”
“There wasn't.”
“That isn't the same as remembering it.”
“It is if you remember somebody asking about it.”
Doc pushes away from the wall.
“Who?”
Trigger closes his eyes.
For once, nobody jokes about his head injury.
“It was after the ambush. Maybe two weeks.”
“Grant was already dead?” I ask.
“Yes.”
His voice changes.
The humor disappears.
“We were still at the forward operating base waiting for transport home. Everyone was being questioned about what happened in the valley.”
“By Army investigators?” Sheriff Tate asks.
“Some. Intelligence people too.”
“Hampton?”
“No. Hampton disappeared immediately after the ambush.”
Doc's jaw tightens.
“I remember.”
Trigger continues.
“One of the investigators asked me whether Grant had ever mentioned Operation Twenty-Three.”
Wolf goes still.
“Operation?”
“That's what he called it.”
“Not Mission Twenty-Three?”
“No.”
Doc walks to the desk.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I'd never heard of it.”
“Had you?”
“No.”
“Who was the investigator?”
Trigger opens his eyes.
“I don't remember his name.”
Doc curses quietly.
“It was fifteen years ago,” Trigger says. “I had just watched friends die. I wasn't memorizing name tags.”
“Would you recognize him?”
“Maybe.”
Wolf leans against the desk.
“Did he ask about anything else?”
“Grant’s personal belongings.”
My stomach tightens.
“What about them?”
“He wanted to know whether Grant kept notes.”
Doc and Wolf exchange a look.
“He knew about the journal,” I say.
“Or suspected Grant documented what he found,” Doc answers.
“What did you tell him?”
Trigger looks at me.
“That Grant wrote everything down.”
I close my eyes.
“Wonderful.”
“I didn't know there was a secret journal.”
“You couldn't have known.”
“But whoever asked the question knew Grant might have evidence.”
Doc reaches for the photograph Hampton left behind.
“Eight entered the valley. Seventeen were waiting. Twenty-three never existed.”
“Maybe Twenty-Three isn't a mission at all,” I say.
Doc looks at me.
“Hampton's wording matters. He wrote Twenty-three never existed. He didn't write Mission Twenty-Three never existed. We added the mission part because that's what it reminded you of.”
Sheriff Tate nods.
“Good point.”
I look at Trigger.
“And the investigator called it Operation Twenty-Three.”
“Right.”
“So Hampton could be referring to something else.”
“Or the investigator deliberately called it an operation because he wanted to know whether we'd heard that phrase,” Doc says.
Wolf rubs his jaw.
“We're guessing.”
“Yes,” I say. “Which means we stop guessing and start finding records.”
Sheriff Tate looks at me.
“Tomorrow.”
I sigh.
“Do you enjoy saying that word?”
“More every time.”
By three in the morning, Sheriff Tate finally forces everyone out of his office.
Except me.
Apparently I'm not allowed to go home.
Again.
Wolf and Trigger return to the Last Stand. Doc is supposed to go with them.
He doesn't.
I come out of the restroom and find him sitting in a chair beside my desk.
I stop.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“You need somewhere to sleep.”
“So do you.”
“I'll sleep later.”
“You were shot.”
“Grazed.”
“If you say that word one more time, I'm going to reopen the wound myself.”
He considers me.
“That seems medically counterproductive.”
I close my eyes.
“Why are you still here?”
His expression changes.
Not much.
Enough.
“Because you're here.”
My irritation disappears.
Doc looks away first.
“Wolf said there's a couch in the break room.”
“There is.”
“You can sleep there.”
“And where will you sleep?”
“Chair.”
“No.”
His gaze returns to mine.
“No?”
“I'm not taking the couch while an injured man sleeps in a chair.”
“Grazed.”
I point at him.
“That was your last warning.”
His mouth twitches.
I grab a blanket from the supply closet and toss it at him.
He catches it.
“Break room. Couch. Go.”
“Yes, Deputy.”
I hate how much I like it when he says that.
I turn away before he notices.
“Mara.”
I stop.
His voice has lost the humor.
“What?”
“Did Grant ever tell you why he gave you the key?”
I look back at him.
“No. He said it opened his lockbox and that I should keep it.”
“Nothing else?”
“He told me not to lose it.”
“That sounds like Grant.”
“He also said if I lost it, he'd shave my head while I slept.”
Doc smiles.
“He threatened Wolf with the same thing once.”
“Why?”
“Wolf lost his knife.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“It wasn't Grant’s knife.”
I laugh.
Then Doc reaches beneath the collar of his shirt and pulls out the chain holding Grant’s dog tag.
My laughter fades.
“He gave you the key before deployment,” he says. “Before he knew anything about the betrayal.”
“Yes.”
“But later, he wrote Mara has the key.”
“Meaning he decided to use something he'd already trusted me with.”
Doc nods.
“He knew you would keep it.”
“I forgot what it opened.”
“But you kept it.”
I hadn't thought about that.
Fifteen years.
College.
The academy.
Moving twice.
Dad dying.
Mom getting sick.
And through all of it, the little silver key stayed attached to a charm bracelet in my jewelry box.
“I never throw away gifts from Grant.”
Doc closes his fingers around the dog tag.
“Neither do I.”
Our eyes meet.
Something quiet settles between us.
Not attraction.
Not only attraction.
Grant.
A connection neither of us asked for and neither of us seems able to escape.
“Get some sleep,” I say softly.
“You too.”
I turn toward the break room.
Then stop.
“Doc?”
“Yes?”
“You said Grant talked about me all the time.”
“He did.”
“Tell me one more.”
He doesn't ask what I mean.
A memory softens his face.
“He told us about your first date.”
“Oh, God.”
“He followed you.”
My mouth drops open.
“He what?”
“Three cars back.”
“I knew it!”
Doc laughs.
Actually laughs.
“You knew?”
“Grant swore he was at home!”
“He made his friend drive because he thought you'd recognize his truck.”
From somewhere near the front of the station, Sheriff Tate calls, “Keep it down!”
I lower my voice.
“Did he follow me the whole night?”
“According to Grant, the boy drove five miles under the speed limit because he knew an Army Ranger was behind him.”
I cover my face.
“He didn't trust the kid.”
“Why?”
“You were in the car.”
I groan.
Doc is still laughing.
And suddenly I can see it.
Grant at twenty-seven.
His friend Mike behind the wheel.
An Army Ranger following a teenage boy through town because his little sister was on her first date.
For years, thinking about Grant hurt.
Tonight it still hurts.
But I'm smiling too.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Doc's laughter fades.
“For what?”
“Giving some of him back to me.”
His expression changes.
The words seem to hit him somewhere deep.
“You're welcome.”
I walk toward the break room before I start crying.
This time, I don't think Doc follows.
At seven fourteen, Sheriff Tate wakes us by banging a coffee mug against the doorframe.
“Rise and shine.”
I open one eye.
“I have a gun.”
“So do I.”
“Mine's closer.”
“You're charming in the morning.”
Across the room, Doc sits up on the couch.
His hair sticks up on one side.
I stare.
He catches me.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I force myself not to smile.
His eyes narrow.
“Something.”
“You look less terrifying when your hair does that.”
He runs a hand over it.
That makes it worse.
I start laughing.
Doc looks offended.
Sheriff Tate takes a drink of coffee.
“This is already the best morning I've had all week.”
Doc stands.
“I'm leaving.”
“No, you aren't,” Tate says. “Deputies cleared Mara’s house twenty minutes ago.”
I'm instantly awake.
“Anything?”
“Back door showed signs someone tried the lock. They didn't get in.”
“Hampton?”
“Maybe.”
I stand.
“We're getting the key.”
Sheriff Tate nods.
“Yes.”
I blink.
“That was easy.”
“I'm going with you.”
Of course.
Doc reaches for his jacket.
“So am I.”
I don't bother arguing.
I'm learning.
Twenty minutes later, three sheriff’s vehicles pull onto my street.
My house looks exactly as I left it.
Small.
White siding.
Blue shutters Mom insisted I needed because the place looked “depressed.”
Doc parks behind Sheriff Tate.
I get out.
He comes around the vehicle.
“Don't say it.”
“Say what?”
“Stay behind me.”
“I wasn't going to.”
I look at him.
“Really?”
“No.”
At least he's honest.
Deputies have already checked every room, but Tate sends them through again before allowing us inside.
Nothing appears disturbed.
I go straight to my bedroom.
Doc waits in the doorway.
“You can come in.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you standing there?”
“It's your bedroom.”
The answer surprises me.
After tackling me twice, ordering me around, and practically attaching himself to my side, this is where he discovers boundaries?
“You've had your hands all over me for the last twelve hours.”
His eyebrows rise.
From the hallway Sheriff Tate says, “I can hear you.”
Heat floods my face.
“That isn't what I meant.”
Doc's mouth twitches.
“I know.”
“Stop smiling.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
I open the top drawer of my dresser harder than necessary.
My jewelry box sits beneath a stack of scarves.
I lift it out and place it on the bed.
For a moment, I don't open it.
Fifteen years.
Grant’s lockbox is waiting behind the sheriff’s department.
And the key that opens it has been sitting here all along.
Doc comes closer.
Not too close.
Just enough.
I lift the lid.
The charm bracelet lies exactly where I remember leaving it.
Silver charms catch the morning light.
A horseshoe.
A tiny sheriff’s star Dad gave me when I graduated from the academy.
A little book from Mom.
And near the clasp?—
An empty ring.
I stop breathing.
“No.”
Doc is beside me instantly.
“What?”
“The key.”
I lift the bracelet with shaking fingers.
The small metal loop where Grant’s silver key hung has been forced apart.
The key is gone.
Doc looks toward the bedroom window.
Then the hallway.
His weapon is in his hand before I can blink.
Sheriff Tate appears in the doorway.
“What happened?”
I hold up the bracelet.
“Someone took Grant’s key.”
Doc's face goes cold.
“Hampton.”
I shake my head.
“He said he couldn't find the journal. He didn't know where Mom moved the lockbox.”
“That doesn't mean he didn't know where you kept the key.”
“But if Hampton already had it last night, why tell us he was looking for it?”
Sheriff Tate's expression hardens.
“He wouldn't.”
I look at Doc.
He reaches the same conclusion at the same moment.
Someone else has been inside my house.
Someone besides Hampton.
And whoever it was now has the only key to Grant’s lockbox.