Chapter 1
BLAKE
My shoulders shake as I rub my arms, hoping to get some feeling back in my frozen limbs.
The bitter morning chill bites at my skin as I sit in my rented Jeep Wrangler, inconspicuously parked in the Riverbend Trailer Park.
My thick parka does little to keep me warm, and my eyes fight to remain open after a long night of surveillance.
The engine of my car struggles as the heater works overtime to keep the frost out.
Across the trailer park, a dog barks at the late morning haze, and a generator hums to keep the lights on. A rusted wind chime clinks somewhere nearby, the sound drifting on the icy breeze. Thin columns of smoke sail from trailer chimneys, disappearing into the gray Wyoming sky.
Outside, the roads are thick with ice, and there’s a layer of snow over everything else. The clouds block the sun, turning the world a shade of gray.
Another cheery winter day in Evergreen Falls, Wyoming.
My arrival went exactly as planned.
Unnoticed.
But that’s the only thing that’s gone right since I got here.
My plan to decipher the not-so-cryptic messages and find the perpetrator has gone nowhere. Either I haven’t watched enough true crime, or I have seriously overestimated my skills.
Reaching into the passenger seat, I grab my sketchbook and charcoal pencils. This is the only thing that has kept me sane—sketching. It’s not my oil paint and brushes, but it will suffice.
We used to live in a small neighborhood on Mill Creek Drive—long driveways, picket fences, and green lawns. After Daddy died, Mama moved us into this trailer. I thought Mama and I would lean on each other, but she chose the bottle instead.
I quickly outline the small home and begin adding the details.
There’s the dent next to the door where Mama hit the trailer with her car when she drove home drunk one night while I was in high school.
The rusted metal siding that has gotten worse in the last twelve years.
The curtain-covered windows that Mama never let me open because the sunlight was too much for her eyes when she was hungover.
Once I’ve added shading, I write in the top left corner, “Monday morning, River Bend Trailer Park.”
I’m not sure which home I hated more. The dirty trailer or the nice house on the cul-de-sac.
Both contain memories I’ve tried to forget.
As I set my sketchbook aside, the trailer door opens and out walks Mama.
The bags under her eyes are heavier than they used to be. Her ivory skin looks as if it hasn’t seen the sun in years. Her almond-brown hair has become brittle. Her clothes look as if they don’t keep her warm at all.
She hops into Daddy’s old pickup. The engine sputters before catching, then she eases the truck onto the road.
Right on schedule.
Her routine hasn’t changed. Every other day or so at this time, she drives to Fall River Market to buy a plastic bottle of cheap whiskey. Occasionally, she buys herself a few grocery items, but it’s not the food that she runs out of first.
At least I now know where the money that I send her every month is going, but I hope I’m wrong.
Passing Evergreen Supply and Timberline Bar, Mama steers her vehicle into the grocery store parking lot as I trail a short distance behind her.
Tired of the banal routine, I continue down the empty road toward the outskirts of town where Moose Gap Lodge, my motel, is located.
I need a shower, a warm blanket, and a nap. Not in that particular order.
I’m only a minute from Moose Gap Lodge when something bright and red dances in the distance outside my driver’s side window.
Slamming on my brakes, my Jeep slides to a bumpy stop on the slick ice. When I turn toward the crimson shape, I squint. It’s so far away in a barren field that it’s barely a few inches tall, but my mind immediately knows what that is.
Fire.
This isn’t right.
It’s too early in the year for this to be a farmer burning their field.
I make a sharp turn onto a dirt road, speeding toward the flames.
Not my smartest move, but this is the first suspicious thing that’s happened since I got here.
As I get closer, the pyre gets bigger. I’m less than thirty yards away when I’m finally able to make out a figure in the fire.
A human figure.
Shit.
Throwing the gear into park, I don’t even take time to turn off the engine. My stomach contracts into a tight ball when I realize the person in the fire is draped on a cross like a scarecrow.
And they aren’t moving.
I grab handfuls of snow and rush them over to the base of the stake. As I drop the snow in an attempt to douse the flames, my face turns pink from the heat.
Repeating the method multiple times barely makes a dent.
I pant heavily, the cold creating its own type of burn in my lungs. A bead of sweat trickles from my hairline down the side of my face from exertion. My gloves are wet from the snow, causing my fingers to throb.
Defeat and exhaustion weigh on my shoulders.
Who did this? Who is in the fire? And why?
The piercing shriek of sirens has me turning my head toward the sound as a large truck turns onto the dirt path I used a few minutes ago. The flashing red and blue lights on top of the cab hurt my already tired eyes.
When the truck slams on the brakes, stopping next to my Jeep, I’m able to make out a word on the side in big bold letters.
SHERIFF.
My racing heart stills.
The cab door opens, and out hops someone I haven’t laid eyes on in twelve years.
A man who has always been closed off to me.
The last person I wanted to see.
His tanned wool coat hangs open despite the cold, revealing a charcoal Henley stretched across his broad shoulders and muscled chest. Faded jeans disappear into weathered boots that have seen more Wyoming winters than most people.
His dark hair is almost a little too long, his jaw perpetually covered in stubble. He’s all sharp angles and hard lines.
There's something about the way he carries himself—steady, controlled, unmovable. He's intimidating without trying to be.
He’s the type of man that parents warn their daughters to stay away from.
Walker Maddox.
And he looks pissed to see me.