Eight #2
The morning light filtered through the pines, casting long, wavering shadows across the cracked asphalt.
The air thinned as they climbed, the engine growling in steady protest. Trevor sat beside her, his gaze fixed on the road ahead as she filled him in on the conversation with her uncle, Lark’s head poking out from the gap between the seats, her nose twitching at the cool mountain air.
“I’m stunned at what Rick said about your father.
The news article says Twila had knocked over a lantern and it caught fire in the hay.
Your dad happened to be jogging when he passed by the barn, but based on where she lived and your grandparents lived…
why would he have been running out that far?
” Trevor asked, his voice low, the hint of a rasp betraying his worry.
“I wish I knew,” she replied, flexing her fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m seeing him in a light I don’t love, and I can’t blame Uncle Rick. Maybe I didn’t want to see it. I mean he did have these depressive moods… I don’t know.”
Trevor nodded, leaning back, his hand absently scratching behind Lark’s ears. “Well, you’re not alone this time. If it turns out that he wasn’t who we thought, we’ll deal with it together.”
The words lingered between them, rich and warm, and she was suddenly grateful for his presence.
They parked near the trailhead, the sun still low, casting a golden glow over the jagged peaks and pines. The wind whipped at her hair as they climbed out. Lark leapt from the truck with a burst of energy, her nose immediately to the ground.
Helena adjusted her pack, the weight a comforting pressure against her back. She took a deep breath, the strong, pine-scented air filling her lungs, cutting through the lingering sense of dread that had clung to her for days.
“This is the trail,” she said, nodding toward the narrow, rocky path cutting through the towering trees.
She hadn’t hiked it since the day they’d found her father’s body broken at the base of the cliff.
The official report had ruled it a tragic accident, a misstep on loose soil.
She always had a hard time believing that, even if it made sense.
Her father had been too careful, too experienced. But he was human.
Trevor fell in beside her, his footsteps solid and sure despite the uneven terrain.
Lark darted ahead, her tail a blur as she bounded through the underbrush, her breaths coming in eager huffs of white mist. The path wound upward, cutting through dense stands of lodgepole pines and bristlecone, the rocky outcroppings slick with rain from a quick shower last night.
As they climbed, Helena found herself slipping into old habits, her senses sharpening, her gaze picking out the telltale signs of recent animal tracks, the subtle shifts in the wind.
She felt the old familiar pulse of adrenaline, the heightened awareness that came with the mountains, the sense of something vast and ancient breathing around her.
They reached the overlook where her father had fallen.
The drop was as sheer and unforgiving as she remembered, the rocks below sharp as broken glass.
She stopped at the edge, her boots shifting on the loose gravel, her pulse thudding in her ears.
She crouched, her gloved hand brushing the cold stone.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memories wash over her.
Her father’s laugh, his rough, callused hands adjusting her climbing harness, his voice carrying over the wind as he pointed out distant peaks.
Trevor stood beside her, giving her the space to breathe through the moment, reminding her she was not alone.
“Would you like me to step away for a bit?” he asked.
Lark growled and let out a bark. But she didn’t circle, so it wasn’t accelerant.
Before she could respond to him or the bark, the sharp fracture of a gunshot echoed through the canyon, the sound splitting the cold air.
The rock beside Helena’s head shattered, sending shards of stone flying past her cheek.
She faltered, her heart slamming into her ribs, adrenaline flooding her veins.
“Move!” Trevor grabbed her arm, pulling her back from the edge as another shot rang out, this one closer, the bullet whining past her ear. Lark barked, a frantic, high-pitched yelp as she bolted for the cover of the trees.
Helena stumbled, her pulse thundering in her ears as she followed Trevor into the trees, their footsteps crashing through the underbrush. The relentless gunshots continued, splintering tree bark and kicking up dust as they zigzagged through the trees.
Her lungs burned. The ground was treacherous beneath their feet, roots and rocks conspiring to trip them at every turn. Trevor gripped her arm, his strength pulling her forward, his body a solid, protective shield beside her.
They crashed through a dense thicket, the branches clawing at their clothes, and burst into a narrow, rocky ravine. Trevor spun, his back to her, his eyes scanning the ridge above them, his chest heaving as he reached for the sidearm holstered at his hip.
“Stay down,” he hissed, his gaze fixed on the tree line above. “Whoever that is, they know this terrain.”
Helena dropped to her knees, her mind racing. She had come here for closure, for peace, and instead she’d been attacked. Someone had followed them, had been following them. Shadowing them like a specter.
“Stay with me, Helena,” Trevor whispered, his voice steady despite the concern in his eyes. “We’ll get out of this.”
She met his gaze with the sharp edge of her own fear cutting through the fog of adrenaline. She nodded. “I trust you.” They had to survive this—she had to survive this. For herself. For the truth she could no longer ignore.
Her father wasn’t who she thought he was. An arsonist wanted her dead and they believed it might be in conjunction to Alicia’s murder. Serial killers didn’t simply give up. They kept killing until they were stopped.
Could they stop him before he ended her forever?
* * *
Trevor’s pulse hammered in his ears, each beat a jolt of raw adrenaline as they crashed through the underbrush. Branches whipped at his face and snagged his jacket, the rocky ground shifting treacherously beneath his boots, and every muscle in his body screamed at him to keep moving.
Lark darted ahead, her sleek body weaving through the trees, her instincts sharp and unerring.
She wouldn’t get too far ahead and as long as he could keep his eyes on her, he allowed her the freedom to keep watch and keep them protected going forward.
He tightened his grip on Helena’s wrist. He didn’t dare slow down, not even to look back, the primal fear of being hunted pushing him onward, his mind racing with every possible outcome.
A bullet slammed into a pine trunk inches to his left, splintering the rough bark in a burst of fragrant dust. He ducked instinctively, pulling Helena down with him as they slid into another narrow, rock-strewn ravine.
His heart might tear free of his chest, the fear not just for himself but for her.
Lark dodged and went low under some brush but refrained from barking.
She knew when to be quiet. But she locked her dark brown eyes on him as if telling him she would be okay and not to worry. He’d worry anyway.
“Keep low!” he ordered, his voice ragged as he shoved her ahead, his eyes darting to the ridge above where the shots had come from. The sun cast long, slanting beams through the trees, making every shadow a potential threat. He needed to get them out of this kill zone—needed to get her to safety.
Helena stumbled, her boots scraping against loose shale, and he tightened his grip, steadying her as they ducked behind a cluster of boulders.
Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, the fear radiating off her in waves, but there was a fierce determination there, too, a stubborn refusal to give in.
He recognized it; that same fire that had drawn him to her in the first place, the unbreakable spirit that had survived so much already.
“We need to circle back to the truck,” he whispered, his chest heaving, every breath a searing effort in the thin mountain air. “If he cuts us off, we’re screwed.”
Helena nodded, her jaw clenched, and he felt a flicker of pride for her, even now, in chaos and fear. She was a fighter. He just had to make sure they both got out of this in one piece.
They moved in short, desperate bursts, weaving between tree trunks and skirting the sharp edges of the ravine, every step a gamble. The shots came less frequently now, the sniper either losing track of them or biding their time, and Trevor’s mind raced with possibilities.
His sidearm in his grip gave him reassurance, but he hesitated to shoot. He couldn’t fire blindly into the trees, couldn’t risk exposing their position further. They needed distance, not a firefight.
They broke free of the dense underbrush into a small clearing, the sunlight momentarily blinding him.
Helena stiffened beside him as she took in their position—exposed, the ground sloping sharply away to their left, the sheer drop-off just a few feet away.
His mind spun as he scanned the tree line for movement.