Chapter 3
HELENA
I'm reorganizing the medication cabinet when my mind keeps circling back to Eli Vance.
Years alone in the wilderness. Marshal Miller mentioned he's former military, medically discharged, that he's been completely withdrawn from society. Whatever broke him badly enough to make him disappear into the backcountry doesn't just heal because a traumatized teenager needs him to function.
And now he's responsible for Traci. A girl who needs stability, consistency, someone who can handle the weight of her recovery without breaking under it. Even after time in protective custody she's still operating like a prisoner.
I watched how he positioned himself during the exam earlier. Close enough for Traci to see him, far enough to give me working room. Every movement deliberate, controlled, making himself into a fixed point she could orient around. The placement was tactical but the intent was protective.
He's trying. Whether his best is good enough remains to be seen.
I close the cabinet and move to the desk, updating patient files from this morning's appointments.
Mrs. Bailey's blood pressure is finally stabilizing.
Liam's chainsaw wound is showing no signs of infection.
The work continues regardless of what else is happening in town.
Mountains visible through the window, dark against the gray sky.
My phone buzzes. Text from Zeke:
Eli and Traci settled at the cabin. I'm bringing Rhys in to consult. Heading your way. Need to debrief.
I respond:
Come to the back entrance. I'll have coffee ready.
Soon, Zeke and Rhys walk through my back door. I've known Zeke long enough to read the tension in his shoulders, and Rhys carries the same controlled alertness I've seen in law enforcement who work the worst cases. This isn't a social call.
"Coffee's fresh," I say, gesturing to the pot. "Help yourselves."
Rhys pours two mugs, hands one to Zeke, leans against the counter. "How'd the exam go?"
"Physically, she's healing well. Psychologically, she's exactly what you'd expect from someone who survived months of captivity.
She's shut down, hypervigilant, not speaking.
" I pull out Traci's file, show them the notes I'm allowed to share.
"I told Eli to call me if anything seems wrong.
He needs to watch for flashbacks, panic attacks, signs of self-harm ideation. "
"You trust him to recognize those signs?" Zeke asks.
"I trust him to call me if something seems wrong. Beyond that?" I close the file. "He's carrying his own damage. Years of isolation tells me he broke in ways that made functioning around people impossible. But he showed up for his niece. That counts for something."
Rhys sets down his mug. "Talked to him for a few minutes at the clinic while you were finishing up."
"And?"
"Zeke knew him more than I did back when.
Delta Force. You can see it in how he moves, how he assesses a room.
I've worked with enough operatives to recognize the type.
" Rhys's expression turns thoughtful. "But there's something else there.
Control that's costing him effort. Like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will. "
"Which is exactly what worries me," I say. "Traci needs stability. If Eli's barely stable himself, what happens when the weight gets too heavy?"
"Then we step in," Zeke says simply. "That's why we're coordinating. If Vance can't handle it, we have backup plans."
"What's the actual threat?" I ask. "Miller said the network's still operational."
Zeke sets down his mug. "That's why I brought Rhys in. He's been working this trafficking case in Whitewater Junction. The routes run through multiple jurisdictions including Glacier Hollow. And he's got direct connections to the federal task force."
Rhys pulls out his phone, shows me what looks like case file documentation—a map with routes marked across Alaska. "If the network thinks Traci can identify anyone, she's a target. I've seen how they operate in the cases I'm working."
"This is bigger than we initially thought," Zeke says. "Federal task force is working it, but they're a long way from dismantling the infrastructure. In the meantime, anyone connected to the Seattle operation is vulnerable."
"How vulnerable?"
"Witnesses have disappeared," Rhys says bluntly. "People who were going to testify, who had information that could damage the network. Gone. Federal protection didn't help them."
The words settle cold in my chest. "You think they'll come here?"
"I think they might already be here," Zeke says. "We're a small town, easy to watch, hard to secure completely. If I were planning an extraction or elimination, Glacier Hollow would be on my list of vulnerable targets."
"So what's the plan?"
"Surveillance," Zeke says. "Rotating patrols. I'll coordinate with Rhys's department and the federal task force. We watch for anyone who doesn't belong, anyone asking questions, any pattern that suggests reconnaissance."
"And if they do come?"
"Then we respond with everything we've got." Zeke's tone leaves no room for doubt. "This is our town. Our people. We don't let traffickers operate here."
Rhys nods. "I'll reach out to my contacts in the task force. See if there's any intel on network movements in this region. Cross-reference with cases I've been working. Feed everything to Zeke."
They finish their coffee and head out, leaving me alone in the clinic with files that document damage and plans that might not be enough to prevent more.
I spend the next hour updating records, organizing medication schedules, returning calls to patients who need routine follow-ups.
The front door chimes. I look up from my computer.
A man walks in wearing business casual that's trying too hard to look relaxed. Slacks, button-down shirt, lightweight jacket. The kind of outfit someone wears when they want to blend in but don't actually understand the local dress code.
Something about him triggers immediate wariness.
"Can I help you?" I ask.
"I hope so." He pulls out credentials. Federal badge, victim services division. "I'm looking for Traci Vance. I understand she was transferred to Glacier Hollow under guardian care."
The credentials look right at first glance. Federal seal, photo ID, official agency name. But something about the presentation feels rehearsed. Like he's practiced pulling them out in a mirror.
"I'm not at liberty to confirm or deny that I know anyone by that name," I say.
His expression shifts slightly. Annoyance breaking through the professional veneer. "I'm with victim services. This is a federal matter involving a minor—"
"I'm a physician bound by HIPAA," I cut him off. "I cannot provide any information about patients, potential patients, or confirm whether any individual has or has not received care at this facility."
"Surely you understand the importance of—"
"What I understand is that you're asking me to violate federal medical privacy law." I keep my voice level. "I will not be doing that. If you have official business, work through proper channels."
His eyes scan the clinic too carefully. Taking in the layout, the exits, the equipment. Not casual observation. Assessment.
Through the window behind him, I can see a dark sedan in the parking lot. Rental plates. Engine running. Someone waiting inside. The driver's silhouette is visible but I can't make out features.
His expression doesn't change but something hardens in his eyes. The professional mask slips for just a second, revealing calculation underneath.
"I understand." He pockets the credentials. "Thank you for your time."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "You know, it's a small town. Word gets around. People talk."
"They do, and one of the things they talk about is out of towners asking for information to which they're not entitled," I say.
He leaves. The sedan pulls out of the parking lot a moment later, driving slowly past the clinic before disappearing down Main Street.
I wait until he's completely out of sight, then pull out my phone.
Zeke answers on the first ring. "Helena?"
"Someone just came by asking questions. Federal credentials, victim services division. Wanted information I wouldn't provide."
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. Standard HIPAA response. Couldn't confirm or deny anything."
"Good. Description?"
I give it to him. Mid-forties, average height, brown hair, forgettable features.
The kind of man who's deliberately cultivated blandness.
"Business casual, trying to look relaxed but moving wrong for a civilian.
There was someone waiting in a rental sedan.
Dark blue or black. I couldn't get the plate number. "
"Credentials looked legitimate?"
"At first glance, yes. But the whole interaction felt wrong. Too smooth. Too rehearsed. And he scanned the clinic like he was doing reconnaissance, not conducting official business."
Zeke's quiet for a moment. I can hear him processing, running through protocols. "You still at the clinic?"
"Yes."
"Lock the doors. I'm sending Nate Barrett over. He'll stay with you until we sort this out."
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can. But I'm not taking chances. If that was reconnaissance, they might come back." His tone shifts to command mode. "Lock the doors, Helena. Now."
I move to the front entrance and engage the deadbolt. "Done."
"Good. Nate's on his way. I'm calling Miller to verify whether victim services is actually doing wellness checks. If they're not, we've got a problem."
"And if they are?"
"Then I want to know why nobody coordinated with local law enforcement first." He pauses. "You did the right thing. Don't give them anything."
"I didn't."
"I'm texting Eli to put him on alert. Stay inside until Nate arrives."