Chapter 32
MOLLY
I’m not sure how long it’s been as I’ve been doing my best not to take out my phone, but easily thirty to forty minutes have gone by.
Not a single tug on my line, and I’ve been blowing off steam by vigorously skipping rocks for a little while now.
Trying to evacuate my mind of all troubling thoughts, I make an effort to focus solely on what my senses can pick up.
The sound of the trees, the occasional call of a stellar jay, my foot crunching on the dirt and gravel beneath me.
I need to mellow out, or all the unanswered questions of what I am to Wolf and where our relationship is going are going to plague me to the point of insanity.
The thoughts invade anyway.
We can work this out.
It’s just a byproduct of one of his quirks, and you’ll get through it.
But how? And how long will it fucking take?
Enough!
I shake my head, blowing out a harsh breath as if scolding my rogue brain.
Looking around me, I can see I don’t have a lot of daylight left.
Coming out at this time of day wasn’t my brightest idea.
I didn’t even grab my gun before leaving because I was in such a whirled state.
I know I need to head back—judging by the orange glow reflecting off the tall grass, dusk will make its appearance in thirty to forty minutes.
I decide to take the trail near the access road.
It takes a little longer, but I don’t want to go through the forest with darkness being so near.
I’ve just made it past the ravine and one of my favorite landmarks is in view—an assembly of natural river walks that form a makeshift bridge over one of the tiny tributaries.
Habitually holding my arms out for balance, I step onto the first brown rock that always reminds me of a discarded ball of clay and keep my eyes down to find my footing on the larger grey rock when the difference hits me.
I stop in my tracks—something is very, very off.
The rocks and soil are damp, but there’s no water streaming beneath me.
This is wrong. I didn’t even realize the absence of trickling water lapping across the rocks as I approached, and now, I try to make sense of what’s occurred.
A glance toward the main eddy where my beloved boat sits proves it’s not wobbling like it normally does with the water flow. Other than that, the water appears to be at its usual level. Looking the other way, west, I decide to hike up to the source to investigate.
It’s a decent, uneven trek, though not far. But when I reach its end, just before one of the dirt access roads, my heart plummets to my stomach, and the rest of my insides turn cold with foreboding unease.
The culvert that travels beneath the access road has been blocked. A block like this and a day or two of rain would mean redirection of the waterflow and a potential flood—right toward Clover Hill! I drop my pole and tackle box and hustle over to find the cause.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself and draw closer.
I pick at the edges of the pipe that look burned and rusted around a large slab of marshy debris—soggy leaves, mud, and tree branches.
Had I not walked by merely two days ago, I would’ve thought it was a natural clog, which can be easily dislodged.
But this is packed solid, and the eroded edges of the pipe didn’t look like this before.
Furthermore, the metal feels warm to the touch.
Nothing about this is natural, and I start digging and picking at the clog, trying to dislodge the tightly packed debris.
It only gives way a feeble amount at a time..
Wiping my muddy fingers on my jeans, I reach in my back pocket for my phone.
I need to report this, and I should call Wolf.
Despite the uncomfortable current between us right now, he’s probably back up at the house and can take action faster than I can.
Unfortunately, my phone boasts zero bars next to the signal strength indicator.
“Fuck,” I mutter on a shallow breath before looking up and taking note of the sky.
It’s too overcast to see a sunset with an orange ball, but I can still tell by the light that I don’t have much time before it goes dark.
Frantically, I grab a nearby stick and start jabbing at the giant wad of debris, which doesn’t give way.
There’s something hard—concrete maybe?—behind the mess and any doubt about foul play has jumped out the window.
Dropping the stick and abandoning my fishing gear, I climb up on the access road and take a moment.
Which direction will get me to a person or a stronger cell signal?
North leads to the house, and south takes me to a small ranger station that would have dispatch access to both the cops and the game wardens.
But with the sun setting, they’ve likely closed for the evening.
Deciding on the house, I start jogging down the dirt trail, taking my phone out and checking the signal every thirty seconds or so. I’m half wondering if I shouldn’t go back down into the thick, the way I came. It’s a straighter shot, but I can move faster on the road.
A turnout is coming up, hopefully behind the next bend, if not the next.
I’ll take a rest there to help my burning lungs and try again for a signal.
To my dismay, the turnout takes longer to reach, and curiously, a black SUV with a utility trailer hitched to the back is parked alongside it.
I can’t make out what kind of machinery it’s hauling, but I slow my gait to a steady stride as I take it in.
Grabbing my phone, I snap a quick photo of it and the license plate but quickly repocket the phone when I notice movement from the front seat. I scurry to the side.
The driver side door kicks open, and a black work boot covered in mud steps out onto the dirt quickly followed by black jeans and a grey T-shirt covered in smudges of soot and dirt. The scruffy and stocky man with a backward cap squints his eyes, scrutinizing me from head to toe.
I’m rooted to the dirt road, not knowing how to act or what to say. Everything about this man, his vehicle, and what he’s wearing scream undebatable danger. I stand here slack-jawed, still debating whether to make up something to say or just bolt.
Then someone exits the other side. “What the fuck is the holdup, Henry?” The man strolls around the front of the hood to join his cohort. He pushes his designer sunglasses onto his head, and his face turns to stone at the same time I piece together what’s happening.
Damen Riley, in his bougie black slacks and fancy, pointy shoes, stands before me, trying to look like a tough exec who’s not afraid to roll his button-down sleeves up. “Molly Butler,” he states simply, as if he’s just been called on in class.
“It’s Owens,” I hiss, not aware I’d claim my new last name until this very moment. “What the hell are you doing?” I demand, no longer afraid of the suspicious man next to him.
He holds his hands out and shakes his head as his eyebrows slant quizzically over his eyes, a feigned look of absolute innocence. “Nothing, Molly, just still scoping out possibilities?—”
“Did you just block the culvert to the Garnet?” I start staring down the other man, mentally logging mud stuck to his boots and the burn holes that mar his jeans.
Riley shakes his head, still playing dumber than a box of rocks. “What? I don’t… No, I’m not?—”
“You sealed it shut.” I wave between the machine and his hard-working friend. “You covered it with river debris. You’re making the inflow of rainwater head straight to my property. The property you want.” The words spill out as I search for clues on either of their faces that I might be right.
Riley has the nerve to smile condescendingly, still shaking his head.
He’s clearly intent on denying his involvement to the bitter end.
He opens his mouth to spew more lies when the other man—Henry—moves abruptly, making me brace myself.
Shoving past Riley, he reaches inside the front seat, leaning out of view briefly before straightening back up with a rifle in his hands.
My body stiffens as my breath catches in my chest. The panic in my mind diffuses through my chest, leaving room for cursing myself for not carrying my own weapon on me this time.
“Henry, what the fuck?” Riley surprises me with a stiff posture and a low, disapproving growl in his voice.
The man swings the barrel to point at me briefly. “She knows what’s up,” he says casually before jacking the fore end.
It doesn’t matter that I own a shotgun myself; the loud ratcheting sound brings my shoulders up to my ears, and my feet shift back again. The scrape of my boots on the dirt catches Henry’s attention, and he lofts the weapon against his shoulder.
“This is not part of the deal.” Riley brings his hand down, trying to lower the barrel, but his interference just makes me more nervous that the gun might go off and hit me with a bullet.
“Witnesses were not part of the deal,” Henry snarls back, yanking the barrel out of Riley’s reach.
“She can be bought,” Riley insists, and when Henry moves his head just slightly to regard him with a dubious expression, his shoulders relax.
The half second his guard is somewhat diverted is all my brain needs to decide and act, and I turn my body in the other direction and bolt behind their enormous vehicle.
“Dammit!” One of them yells behind me.
I can’t stay hidden; my only option is to run in the direction of the woods.
Unlike the clear opening I had when I came onto the access road, my nearest route to the woods is through a big thicket of thorns and brush.
Prickly leaves catch the skin on my arms and snag onto my jeans as I scramble through, slowing me down like movements in a bad dream, and it causes the already surging terror to ramp up.