Chapter 32
thirty-two
Three vehicles — two marked cruisers and an unmarked sedan — their headlights sweeping across Greta’s dark house, turning her front lawn into a stage.
He counted the doors opening. Four. Five.
Six. Men in uniform spreading out across her property, flashlights cutting through the dark, radios crackling.
His hands were flat on the counter and he couldn’t make them move.
Behind him, Walker was on the phone with someone — state contact, maybe FBI, Bear couldn’t track it.
Ghost’s fingers moved across his laptop keyboard in the steady rhythm that meant he was deep in whatever digital labyrinth he’d disappeared into.
Naomi paced the living room, her own phone pressed to her ear, voice low and clipped.
Bear’s foot throbbed. Johanna had wrapped it — gauze and medical tape, efficient and tight — but blood had already seeped through in a dark oval near his heel where the glass had gone deepest. He could feel it, wet and warm inside his boot, but he couldn’t make himself care about it.
Greta was out there. In a tarp. In a truck. With someone who had hit her dog hard enough to break bone.
His vision went white at the edges and he made himself breathe.
Across the street, more lights came on. Crime scene tape going up around Greta’s porch.
Someone photographing the front door. Another officer crouched near the driveway with a flashlight, examining tire tracks in the grass.
Bear watched them work and felt the distance between himself and useful action stretch until it was unbearable.
King still hadn’t come back.
The thought landed with a cold edge under everything else.
King had taken off after the truck and disappeared around the corner, and Bear had been so focused on Atlas and Greta and Logan that he hadn’t tracked it.
King was out there somewhere in the dark too, probably miles from home now, chasing a vehicle he couldn’t catch.
One missing dog. One missing woman. One dog at Lila’s clinic with a broken jaw.
He needed to move. Needed to get in his truck and go.
“Bear.” Boone’s voice came from directly behind him, low and even. “Step back from the window.”
He didn’t move.
“Dane.” Boone used his real name, the one he only pulled out when things were bad. “You’re standing in full view of half the neighborhood. Step back.”
Bear forced his hands off the counter. Took one step back, then another. His body moved like something mechanical, joints grinding, everything stiff and wrong.
Boone stayed close. A wall of presence at Bear’s left shoulder, solid enough that Bear could feel the gravity of him.
A fourth vehicle turned onto Maple. This one Bear recognized before it parked — the dark blue Chevy Tahoe with Bravlin County Sheriff decals, the light bar across the top.
Hank Goodwin’s truck.
Bear’s jaw locked.
The Tahoe pulled up behind the unmarked sedan and Hank got out, already adjusting his hat. He crossed to where two state troopers were conferring near Greta’s mailbox and inserted himself, one hand on his duty belt, his mouth moving like he was giving orders.
It didn’t take long. The taller trooper said something short and sharp and pointed back toward the street.
Hank’s face went red. He said something else, louder, and the tall trooper stepped into his space.
Hank went still. Then he backed up three steps, turned, and walked stiffly to his truck.
“Good,” Boone said quietly. “Stay inside.”
The words took a second to land. When they did, Bear turned his head and looked at his friend. Boone was watching him. Flat. He’d been reading Bear’s body language and he didn’t like what he’d seen.
“I wasn’t going to—”
“Yeah, you were.” Boone’s tone didn’t leave room for argument. “You were about to go over there and put your hands on him, and that would end this whole thing before it starts.”
Bear’s hands curled into fists. Boone was right. He’d been half a second from the door.
He made himself unclench his hands. Made himself turn away from the window.
The kitchen table had become a command center.
Ghost sat at one end with his laptop open, two external hard drives plugged in, his face lit blue-white by the screen.
Naomi stood behind him with her phone, talking someone through a list — names, dates, vehicle descriptions.
Walker was at the counter with his own phone, his hat off, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. He was thinking three moves ahead.
The rest of the Valor Ridge crew filled the kitchen — Jax and Anson at the table waiting for tasks, X at the doorframe with his usual grin gone, River at the sink, Hatch and Jonah by the back door, all of them still and waiting.
Logan sat at the far end of the table with Johanna beside him. The kid’s face was pale but steady, his hands flat on the table, his attention moving from person to person as he tracked the conversations.
Bear crossed to the table and stopped behind Ghost’s chair. He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t make his body fold into a chair when every nerve in him was screaming to move, to act, to do something.
“Talk to me,” he said. His voice came out rough.
Ghost didn’t look up. “Working on it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.” Ghost didn’t stop typing. “I’m pulling traffic cam footage from every intersection between here and the highway. It takes time.”
“We don’t have time.”
“I know.” Ghost’s tone was flat. Final. “Which is why you’re going to let me work and stop breathing down my neck.”
Bear made himself step back. One step. Two. Until he was standing near the sink with nowhere to go and nothing to do with his hands.
Boone followed him.
“You’re bleeding through your boot.”
Bear looked down. The leather was dark with blood, a wet patch spreading across the toe. He’d been putting weight on it without registering the pain, and now that Boone had pointed it out he could feel it — a deep throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He ignored it.
Across the street, an officer was walking the perimeter with a German Shepherd. Bear watched the dog work — nose down, moving in a grid pattern, the handler following.
Atlas should have been here. Should have been tracking Greta’s scent, leading them straight to wherever she’d been taken. But Atlas was at Lila’s clinic with a broken jaw and Bear was here, useless, watching strangers do a job that would take too long.
He started pacing. Three steps to the sink, turn, three steps to the table, turn.
Boone moved with him, close enough to block him on the next turn.
His chest was too tight and his lungs weren’t pulling in enough air and his brain kept looping back to Greta unconscious, wrapped in a tarp, thrown into a truck bed like cargo.
“You’re spiraling,” Boone said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding, pacing, and ten seconds from doing something that’ll get you arrested.” Boone’s voice was low, calm, the tone he used when he was talking someone off a ledge. “That’s not fine.”
Bear’s jaw worked. The truth of it landed heavy in his chest.
“I can’t just stand here.”
“I know.” Boone’s hand came up and gripped Bear’s shoulder, firm and grounding. “But you’re no good to her like this. Slow down. Breathe. Let Ghost work.”
Bear closed his eyes. He tried to pull in a full breath and couldn’t get past halfway. Tried again. On the third attempt his lungs expanded and the tightness in his chest eased a fraction.
When he opened his eyes, Logan was watching him from across the room.
The kid’s expression was careful, guarded, but there was something underneath it that looked like fear. Not fear of Bear — fear for him. Fear that his dad was about to come apart and Logan wouldn’t know how to put him back together.
Bear made himself hold his son’s gaze. Made himself stand still instead of pacing.
Logan stood. He crossed the room slowly, his hands in his pockets, and stopped a few feet away. Close enough to talk without the whole room hearing, far enough that Bear could breathe.
“Dad.”
Bear made himself look at his son.
“Please don’t do anything stupid.”
Bear’s throat closed.
“I know you want to.” Logan’s voice was low, careful, the words coming out one at a time like he’d been rehearsing them while he waited. “I know if you walked out that door right now, you’d find someone to hurt. Hank, or some random guy in a bar, or yourself. I know.”
Bear didn’t trust his voice.
“I need you here.” Logan swallowed. “Greta needs you functional. Not in a cell. Not in a hospital. Not…” He stopped. His eyes shone. “Not gone, Dad. Please.”
The word please landed harder than the whole sentence. Bear’s breath left him in a rush and he had to lock his knees to stay upright.
Logan was fifteen years old and he was asking his father not to leave him alone.
“Okay,” Bear said. The word came out rough but steady. “Okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Logan’s shoulders dropped two inches. He nodded once, then turned and went back to the table, dropping into his chair beside Johanna.
Boone’s hand was still on Bear’s shoulder. He squeezed once, then let go.
Bear made himself walk to the table. Made himself pull out a chair and sit in it, even though his body protested every inch of the way down. His foot throbbed when he settled his weight, and he gritted his teeth against it.
He thought about King. The big dog out somewhere in the dark, chasing a truck he had no chance of catching.
“Logan.”
His son looked up.
“King’s still out there.”
Something flickered across Logan’s face — the realization that he hadn’t thought about the dog either, and the small flush of guilt that came with it.
“He’ll come back, right?”
“Yeah.” Bear made his voice steady. “He’s got a good nose. He’ll find his way home. But if he’s not back by sunrise, we go looking. You and me.”
Logan nodded. His jaw set.
It wasn’t much. It was the only piece of the night Bear could offer his son that wasn’t terrifying. We will go find your dog together when the sun comes up. A simple promise about a simple thing. Bear could keep that one.
Naomi was still on the phone near the living room, but her voice had changed — gone from clipped and professional to something sharper. She said, “Yes, I’m sure. Run it again.” A pause. “No, I’ll wait.”
Bear watched her face. She was standing very still, her free hand pressed flat against her thigh, and her jaw was set like she’d heard something she didn’t like.
Ghost stopped typing.
The room went quiet.
Naomi stayed on the phone, listening. Then she said, “Send me the file,” and hung up.
She turned to face the room. Her gaze found Bear first, then moved to Walker, then Ghost.
“We’ve been running every name in Greta’s Alice file,” she said.
Her voice was calm, controlled, the voice of someone delivering bad news and refusing to let it shake her.
“Cross-referencing with anyone who owns a dark-colored pickup, anyone with priors, anyone who shows up in any database tied to missing persons cases or assaults.”
Bear’s chest went tight. “And?”
“State police put out a BOLO at two-thirty for any vehicle matching the description Logan gave us. At two-fifty-three, a trooper spotted a dark pickup on Highway 93, heading northwest toward Evaro.” She paused.
“He ran the plate before pulling it over. It came back registered to a woman in Missoula — reported stolen three days ago.”
“Shit,” Walker said quietly.
Naomi looked at Ghost. “At three-oh-eight, you pulled security footage from the gas station on Main Street. Show me what you’ve got.”
Ghost turned the laptop so everyone at the table could see the screen. He clicked through a series of files, then opened a video. The timestamp read 2:34 a.m. The angle was high and wide, showing the gas pumps and the street beyond.
A dark pickup rolled past, visible for maybe three seconds before it disappeared off frame.
Ghost froze the video at the clearest frame. The truck was a Chevy Silverado, dark blue or black, extended cab. The bed was covered with a tarp, secured with bungee cords. The license plate was visible but pixelated. Ghost zoomed in and the numbers sharpened.
Bear’s blood went cold. He knew that plate. Had run it through his head a hundred times since Logan had come running into his room.
“That matches the stolen vehicle report,” Naomi said.
“Can you see the driver?” Walker asked.
Ghost pulled up another file — a different angle, further up Main Street. The same truck appeared at 2:36 a.m. Ghost froze the frame on the windshield and zoomed in.
The driver was more visible here. Pale skin, dark jacket, the brim of a baseball cap shadowing his face. Still not enough to ID him.
“He’s heading northwest on a route,” Ghost said. “Not running blind.”
“Where does that route go?” Jax asked from across the table.
Ghost pulled up a map and drew a line northwest along Highway 93. “If he stays on 93, he’s got options. Evaro, Arlee, St. Ignatius. Or he could cut west toward the Missions.”
“That’s a lot of ground,” Anson said.
“It is.” Ghost looked at Naomi. “Which is why we need to narrow it down.”
Naomi was already dialing. She walked back into the living room with the phone pressed to her ear. “It’s me. I need you to run a name.”
The silence stretched. Bear counted his heartbeats. Twelve. Fifteen. Twenty.
Naomi came back. Her face had gone pale, her mouth a thin line.
“Talk to me,” Walker said.
She looked at Bear. Then at Ghost. Then back at Bear.
“We have a name,” she said slowly, “but I’m struggling to wrap my head around it.”
Bear stood. His chair crashed backward, and he didn’t hear it. “Who?”