Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
SLOANE
By the time I realize I’m in too deep, it’s also too late. Somewhere around seventy-six hundred feet on a road that’s seen better decades, I give the Jeep more gas.
Steve at the gas station warned me about this trail. So did every expression in Hollow Peak that tightened at its mention.
I get it now.
Too damn late to do anything about it.
I white-knuckle the steering wheel, watching the thin ribbon of road narrow, stomach-churning drops on both sides. One wrong move, one misplaced tire, and the families will never know what happened to Phoenix and the rest of his team.
I brake, drawing in a stilted breath. The San Juan Mountains rise in the distance, rugged and majestic. Red-tinted with a dusting of powder from last season.
Forested slopes plunge away on either side of the narrowing trail, beautiful enough to kill you.
Wildflowers dot the hills, punctuating the crusty, salmon-pink remnants of mostly melted glaciers. Cold air curdles like fog beneath the icy protrusions—foreboding, impassable.
No one comes up here for fun.
I shake my head, my entire body trembling. But I can’t go back, even though forward holds no guarantees.
God.
I may need to be helicoptered out of here later. But the only way out now is through.
I stare at my Jeep GPS device, using my fingers to blow up the screen. A straight line magnifies into a tangled vine of switchbacks.
Of course.
Nothing about this investigation has been easy. Why should anything change now?
I finger the cross around my neck. Phoenix gave it to me years ago. A cheap Christmas gift: sterling silver. Without constant polish it corrodes—black and dull.
Now it feels less like jewelry and more like a wound I keep touching. A tangible reminder of the brother I lost… and the answers I crave.
By the time I finally park, adrenaline has been vibrating beneath my skin for nearly two straight hours. I stare at an overgrown one-room cabin that looks like it could magically disappear into the woods if my gaze leaves it for too long.
My chest squeezes. My mouth goes dry… so dry it feels like my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.
I open the water next to me, hands visibly shaking, and force myself to drink. Even my lips tremble, water spilling in small droplets down the front of my black tank top.
Fortunately, it doesn’t show. Doesn’t matter anyway. What I’m here for has nothing to do with me or how I look.
“For Phoenix.”
I check my phone for a signal, suddenly overcome with the desperate need to call my parents, tell them I’m here. Maybe even send them a photo of the place.
No signal. Roaming.
I check the sat phone in my purse just in case, charged and ready.
I call. No answer.
Instead, I text a quick message, finger hovering over the screen at the end. Not: wish me luck. Not: pray for me.
Nope.
Phoenix would want this.
Four words that feel like a lie.
Still, I have to know. My family deserves it. The other families deserve it. I can’t rest until every gap in the timeline is filled.
But some part of me still expects the truth to feel disloyal.
Walking up to the door takes more courage than I thought it would. My knees feel weak, body still quaking from the high-elevation road trip. Every inch toward this cabin feels like stepping deeper into the day my life split in half.
I press my lips together at the door, swallowing loudly. “Hope you’re ready, Rhys Ward. Because I’m not leaving here without answers.”
My knock brings silence.
Somehow louder than the roar of the Jeep’s engine, the music playing during the drive.
Oddly, I don’t hear birds. Not one. It’s as if sound has collapsed in on itself up here.
The air feels wrong somehow—too still, too thin. Even the sunlight looks cold. Overhead, great storm clouds gather, heavy and gray. Of course, another thunderstorm is already building. A daily occurrence here.
Local weather patterns were one of many rabbit holes I went down preparing for this trip. Because you never know which detail will matter most.
My knuckles on the rough-hewn wooden door sound hollow. Broken.
Still nothing.
I walk slowly along the perimeter, peering through the windows. No curtains, as far as I can tell. It’s the home of someone who counts on no one finding him.
Inside, I spy rustic furnishings and a granite-lined hearth that looks as homemade as a pioneer creation from two centuries ago.
No fire. No food. No signs of life, though it’s too tidy to be anything but in use.
I take photos, documenting every angle in every direction. Until finally, I can’t put it off any longer.
I approach the door again, senses narrowing. Still no birdsong. No gentle nature sounds. Just an artificial quiet that crawls beneath my skin.
I try the handle. It opens with a menacing creak. No need for keys up here.
Floorboards creak as I enter. Pine sap and smoke fill my nostrils. I pause, hand still on the knob, letting my eyes adjust to the cramped space. The entire cabin is Marine neat. Precise enough to feel obsessive.
“Rhys Ward?” My voice echoes, nothing soft to muffle its sharp tones. It feels like a violation of a space not built for words or warmth.
“Ward?” I repeat, a hard edge to the syllable. “I’m not leaving until you show yourself. Talk.”
My eyes scan the space. A small table and chair. The hearth with a neat stack of logs. To the right, a kitchen area with a one-burner camping stove and a small pantry. To the left, a makeshift cot.
Minimal enough to feel less like living and more like survival.
On a shelf above his bed, almost like a small altar, I see carefully arranged medals, dog tags, and a photograph. I step forward, the floor groaning as if I’ll fall through it.
I lean over the bed, grabbing the photo and recognizing the faces—First Recon, decked out in their cammies, the Desert Camouflage Uniform or DCU, mountainous terrain looming in the background.
My brother Phoenix, wary and guarded. Alive in a way he isn’t anymore. Something tightens in my chest, like I can’t take a breath.
My vision blurs, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Pull it together, Sloane.” Emotion may sell stories, but it also kills facts.
I examine the other members of the team—the ones who didn’t make it and the few I’ve already spoken to. Adding their voices, their gestures. Almost as if the picture comes to life.
Something bitter rises in my mouth, looking at these men standing in this space. They were one team. More than any one individual.
They were supposed to leave no one behind, but somewhere along the line that promise broke. And only Ward knows why.
Without his testimony, I’ll forever be stitching together fables. And I’ll never see this sacrifice—the years of research, the obsession that brought me here—pay off.
My thumb strokes over the face at the front, clean-shaven, haunted eyes, bold posture.
I’d recognize him anywhere.
I’ve been staring at his image for years now. Trying to get into his mind, to figure out what went wrong.
My mother’s words echo through my head again, remorseful and blunt. Even if you find him. Even if you get him to tell you everything, it won’t bring Phoenix back.
Maybe not. But I still need to understand what he went through. What his final moments looked like.
Did he know he was dying? Was he alone when it happened? Did anyone hear his last words?
My throat works, a dangerous sting behind my eyes.
This never happens to me. No matter what I witness or document. But no story has ever felt this close.
I’ve spent two years grieving my brother. I’m suddenly terrified I never really knew him at all.
“Wherever you are,” I say, voice steady, “you don’t get to stay hidden.”
I return the photo carefully, a new rawness at the edges of my flesh. Outside, I scrutinize the treeline, shrouded in shadow. He could be anywhere. Close enough to hear me.
I cup my hands around my mouth, “Hello? Is anybody out there?” My voice ricochets off countless hard edges, a fading loop. “Sergeant Rhys Ward,” I try again.
I head to my Jeep to start unpacking supplies before the thunderstorm settles in.
Could rain for minutes or hours.
Who knows?
Like this interview.
He could appear in a moment and start talking, quick and easy. Some informants are like that, ready to unburden their souls. Or he could drag it out, make it unending for both of us.
Because something tells me the only person more stubborn than me isn’t just out of reach. He feels less like a man and more like a locked door no one’s managed to force open.
And the quiet here isn’t empty. It’s held. Like the mountain itself is deciding how long it’s willing to tolerate me.