Chapter 1
Kade O’Malley
Present day
Black fumes billow into the blue sky as I park next to the town’s only hose truck. Jeff Dolan and Marty Freedman already battle the blaze. It’s the second time the trailer’s caught fire this year.
Jumping from my Ford pickup, I grab my outerwear. Seconds later, a tearful Mrs. Buche clutches my arm.
Tears stream down the grooves in her wrinkled face. “Please, please, Buttons is under the couch. He wouldn’t come out when I called.”
“Okay, Ellen. Hold on.” Hat clamped beneath my chin, I squeeze my walkie-talkie. “Hey guys, her cat’s still inside. Am I clear?”
“Affirmative.” Dolan has to yell to be heard above the water’s loud spray. “Bedroom fire’s almost out. I'd say she bought another cheap electric heater.”
Her weathered hand clasped in mine, I meet her rheumy gaze. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”
"Me-ooooow." Following the sound, I navigate the smoky living room, drop to my stomach, and reach under the sofa. “C’mere, kitty.”
Hissing, bristling, the green-eyed scaredy-cat scoots deeper.
“Sorry, pal.” Back on my feet, I shove the couch away from the wall, snatching him by the scruff as he makes a run for it.
The poor thing squirms and yowls as he digs his nails into my coat. Tucked tight to my chest, I race him outside. There, the elderly matron gathers her feisty feline in her arms.
“You naughty boy. You could’ve been killed.” After pressing her nose to his, she turns to me with a toothless grin. “Thank you so much, Sheriff. Can I go back inside now?”
I hesitate to tell her the truth, “Let’s wait for your daughter. She’ll probably want to take you home. You know how she is.”
Brightening, the ninety-year-old winks, then pulls my earlobe close. “My daughter thinks I’m losing my mind.”
“No kidding.” Saved by my phone’s ring, I step away. “O’Malley here.”
“Sheriff? It’s me. Ronnie? Your assistant?” The teen’s been working for me for two weeks, and yet still introduces herself every damn time.
“Yes, Miss Barkley. What’s up?” Taking a deep breath, I tone my voice to sound patient—pleasant—anything but annoyed.
“The State Police called. They want you to call them back ASAP. I told them you were unavailable.”
Pen in hand, I wait for her to finish the message.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Biting my tongue, I roll my eyes. “Did you get a name? A callback number?”
“I didn’t ask.” She has the audacity to sound offended.
Counting to ten, I release my breath. “Okay. Did they say what it was about?”
“Nope. But it sounded important.” While her gum snaps on the other side of the airwaves, I hang up.
Three transfers later, Sergeant Thomas Griffin picks up on the first ring. “Took you long enough. What’s with the stupid girl answering your phone?”
The jerk can be rude to me, but my staff is off limits. “She’s new. Show a little respect.”
“Whatever. Listen, a hiker’s gone missing. A city woman named Briana Gainsborough. May be suicidal. Not heard from since Sunday night. Last seen near Hazel’s Notch.”
“Five days? Seriously?” She could be dead by now.
Griff clears his throat. “Not my doing. Her parents waited—said she’s known to go off-grid. We all know reception on the trail is spotty.”
“Why now? What’s the urgency?” In my mind, I’m already going over my checklist.
“The woman sent a text which set them on edge.”
“To be clear, you want me to call my search and rescue team?” Phone tighter to my ear, I step away from the firefighters so I can hear him better.
“Unless you’d rather I do your job for you?”
Job? Asshole. I’m a volunteer. I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee. “If they put you in charge, can’t be too urgent.”
“Cut the crap.” Picturing his oval New England face turning red, I manage not to snicker.
“Message me the location. I’ll round up the usuals. Oh. Send me her file while you’re at it. Everything.”
A long silence passes before he asks, “What for?”
What bug got up his ass? Reminding myself I’m a fucking adult, I unclench my fists. “You want my help or not?”
“Don’t go thinking you got jurisdiction, Sheriff.” Figures he’d play the who’s-the-boss card.
“Untwist your shorts, Tom. It’s your case. The intel’s for my volunteers.”
He curses, but a moment after he hangs up, I receive his link. I’m still scanning her bio when I pull up our group chat.
Jeff jogs over while I finish typing. “Martin says he’ll store our stuff. I’ll ride with you.”
“Sure. First stop—Becca.” As I shrug off the heavy jacket, the carefree blond drops his go-bag and winter coat in my back seat.
His grin makes me laugh. “How’s my best girl doing?”
I swear he likes my dog better than me. “She’ll be thrilled to stretch her legs.”
We strip off the rest of our gear, hand it to Marty, then climb into my pickup.
On the road, I toss Jeff my phone. “Click the link.”
“Whoa, you never mentioned Officer Dickhead took the lead.” Shaking his head, he frowns, scrolling like mad. “Missing since Wednesday and we’re just hearing about it now?”
“My sentiments exactly.” Deep in thought, I scratch my beard as I pull to the curb next to the diner. “Guess I’ll bring the drone. Your turn to buy coffee.”
A few minutes later, I take a gulp, letting the caffeine rip through my system. “Should be a law against four a.m. alarms.”
As I put my red Ford in drive, my friend sighs. “Poor lady. No way her daughter will let her live alone now.”
He places his cup in the center console, then holds up my phone. “Unlock it again. I wanna see who we’re supposed to find.”
Once I press my thumb to the screen, he reads in silence. At a stop sign a few blocks from my house, he shoves the device to my face. “Whoa, check her out.”
The photo shows a pilot in Navy dress blues—brown hair, brown eyes. Pretty, yet hardly the hint of a smile.
She’s not my type. Why then, does my pulse kick up?
Tamping down my interest, I scowl. “What else does it say?”
Jeff studies the screen.
“Not much. Parents think she was depressed. Put her whole life in storage after she was fired. She told them she was going to do a—” He air-quotes. “Jack Reacher.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. “The fictional character who travels with only a toothbrush?”
“Know any other?” He arches a brow, glancing over. He’s picturing the same train wreck I am.
My gut tightens as I swing into the driveway and punch the garage opener. “So which is it—batshit girl who wandered off, or ex–Navy pilot in over her head?”
“Dunno. Guess we’ll find out.” Dolan hops out and jogs inside.
While he unhooks the hovercraft from the wall, I let the dog out. Tail wagging, my St. Bernard–Lab mix gives a sharp woof, then bolts to the tailgate.
She feels it too—a pulsing urgency thrumming through the air, impossible to ignore.