Chapter 4
Jericho Bowie hadn’t changed, not even a little.
Harley couldn’t let him get under her skin. But there his words sat, burning, even as she tried to shake them away. “I’m around now. And I’m not watching you get yourself killed.”
Harley gripped the steering wheel of her rental Jeep, the engine rumbling as she navigated the winding gravel road toward her parents’ geodesic dome on Caribou Lake.
A Styrofoam box of takeout ribs from the Midnight Sun Saloon sat on the passenger seat, the smoky scent of barbecue sauce seeping into the car.
Night pressed against the glass, the woods a dark blur of spruce and birch, the mountains looming in the distance, just a hulk in the darkness, barely visible under a half-obscured moon.
She scanned the horizon for the northern lights, a habit from childhood, but the sky stayed stubbornly clouded, the stars hidden, the air thick with the promise of snow.
Her phone buzzed in the cupholder, the screen lighting up with a notification from Lydia Harper, the state prosecutor in Juneau.
Harley grabbed it, her thumb swiping to answer, her voice steady despite the knot in her chest, a souvenir from the altercation with Jericho.
“Lydia,” she said, her tone clipped, her gaze on the road.
“I’m almost at the dome—cell service might cut out soon. ”
“I’ll make this quick, then,” Lydia said, her voice sharp, the faint sounds of her office in the background—papers rustling, a keyboard clacking. “What’s the latest on Mars Sorros?”
Harley’s jaw tightened. “The sheriff here has a lead,” she said, her voice low. “They think Mars’s holed up at one of the old Sons of Revolution camps in the area. I’m heading out with a team tomorrow to track him down.”
“Good,” Lydia said. “Conan is in custody, but Mars is just as easily one of the three-headed snakes. Conan is our lead suspect for Jago’s murder, but I’m pretty sure if I dug enough, I could probably find a connection to Mars.”
“I can’t believe he’d kill his own brother. They were pretty tight.”
“Not so tight that Jago wasn’t willing to testify against his dad and Conan.
Without the death penalty in Alaska, we need another conviction on Brand Sorros to keep him locked up.
Otherwise, he’s up for parole in three years.
And Mars has secrets he could trade. At the very least, we need to shut down the Sorros operation, dismantle it. ”
So unfair that the law sometimes gave men like Brand a chance to kill again.
“I know,” Harley said, her gaze flicking to the dark woods, the signal bars on her phone dropping to one. “I’ll get Mars, Lydia. I’m not letting him slip away again.”
“Good. I knew I could count on you. And”—her voice softened—“I know it’s your backyard and it’s full of ghosts. Stay focused, okay?”
Harley’s chest tightened, the memory of Jericho’s eyes flashing, his calm voice cutting through her at the sheriff’s office. “I will. I’ve got to go—losing service.”
The call cut out. Lydia’s words echoed in her head.
Focus. The last thing she needed was for Jericho to drag her back into his . . . well, fears, right? “I’m not watching you get yourself killed.”
No one had asked him to.
And now she simply cut off the voice of reason that argued with her in her head. Like, he wouldn’t have been in trouble at all if she hadn’t dragged him in.
The dome came into view, its triangular glass panels glinting in the Jeep’s headlights, a futuristic orb nestled among the trees overlooking the lake.
The structure perched on sturdy wooden stilts, a ground floor dugout for a car, its lower half painted a deep forest green, the upper half a lattice of glass that caught the faint moonlight, reflecting the surrounding pines.
Her mother’s vision, hand-built by her father back when he’d been an idealistic hippie.
A wraparound cedar deck hugged the base of the dome, the wood weathered to a silver-gray, and a stone path wound down through the forest to the shoreline. In the summer a dock stretched out to a crystalline blue lake.
The Airbnb pictures turned the place nearly magical, with the northern lights ribboning overhead. During high season, the place booked nearly full, although mostly on the weekends.
Tonight, however, at the height of winter, the place stood empty.
Still, she wasn’t staying for long. Tomorrow, she’d apprehend Mars and point her Jeep back to Anchorage, hop on a plane to Juneau.
Harley didn’t bother getting out to key in the code for the garage, but instead she parked in the shoveled area near the door.
Then she grabbed the takeout box, and from the back seat, her duffel, and hung it over her shoulder.
The trees rustled, almost a welcome as she walked up the snowy path, recently shoveled by the Airbnb manager she’d hired.
The wind stirred off the surface of the lake, bit at her cheeks as she climbed the steps to the deck, the wood creaking.
She punched in the code to the lockbox, found the key, and unlocked the door, the key sticking in the frost-stiffened mechanism.
The door swung open, and the scent of cedar and lemon cleaner hit her, the air inside cozy from the thermostat she’d set remotely. She flicked on the lights, the glow bouncing off the glass panels, casting a kaleidoscope of shadows on the pine floor.
I’m home. She nearly called it out, and the old habit shook her.
No, no she wasn’t.
She set her duffel on the floor, then the container on a bench in the entryway. Untied her boots and shucked off her jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door.
Then she picked up her food and walked into her memories.
The open-plan interior stretched before her, the soaring ceiling a design of triangular glass, the central living area anchored by an orange wood-burning stove, its pipe stretching to the roof.
The kitchen sat to the left, with a homemade butcher block countertop, and hand-carved wooden cabinets still holding her mom’s copper pots.
A lofted bedroom overlooked the space, accessible by a ladder, a triangular window framing the dark sky where her parents used to sleep.
A small nook curved into one side of the dome, bookshelves lined with police manuals, Alaskan history books, and her mom’s poetry collections.
Her bedroom and Gabe’s were back behind the kitchen, with more geometric windows overlooking the forest.
And of course, through the woods, from her room, she’d be able to see the grand Bowie family estate. Most particularly, Jericho’s window.
No light in it tonight.
She didn’t know who owned the place now, and she shook away the memories.
Setting the container of ribs on the counter, she turned to the living area.
And, of course, ghosts rushed in. Her mom’s voice, soft and melodic, reading poetry by the stove, the smell of her lavender perfume lifting from one of her homemade afghans.
Her father’s hums as he tried out another of his crazy soup recipes.
Gabe, sitting on the wide, worn sofa, reading a comic book. Happy family. Whole.
Maybe that was not her life. Maybe the life she just created in her head because other voices broke through, sharp and jagged. Gabe’s shouts, his teenage anger filling the dome—“You don’t get it, Dad! You never will!”—the slam of the door to his room.
Her dad’s voice, low and firm, his sheriff’s tone cutting through—“You’re throwing your life away, Gabe, and I won’t let you!”
And Harley, watching, helpless, her own voice lost, her chest aching.
She crossed to a closet near the library nook and punched in the code to the electric lock. The door creaked open, revealing stacks of boxes—her parents’ things, packed away after the crash, the cardboard edges soft with age. A small metal container sat on a shelf.
She lifted it, the surface cold under her fingers.
“Hey, Gabe.”
Her eyes burned. Stupid. She’d meant to spread his ashes after his memorial. Instead, she’d locked them away.
But for a second, his name conjured up his smile, the way he made her feel seen on his good days, when he’d poke fun at her or even show up for her hockey games, rooting his lungs out.
“I miss you.”
A knock at the door jolted her. She turned, her heart slamming against her chest. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me!”
Winter?
Setting the box on the butcher block island, she headed to the door and peered through the glass panel, her breath fogging the window.
Yes, Winter Starr stood on the deck, her long brown braid peeking out under a knitted cap. She wore a thick fur-trimmed, long suede jacket zipped to her chin, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
Of course her best friend would show up.
Harley opened the door, the cold air rushing in. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Winter simply stepped up to her and pulled her into her arms. “You should have waited for me. I would have driven out here with you.”
“I’m okay.”
Winter let her go. “Wait, are those Midnight Sun ribs I smell?” She stepped inside, shut the door.
“Hungry?” Harley walked to the kitchen, flicking on the overhead light.
“Famished. I did a mail run today, down to Willow. Topher sent me a text. Something about you running down a purse-snatcher?”
“Seriously? It’ll probably make the paper.”
“Front page.” Winter unwound her scarf, shoved it into the sleeve of her jacket and hung it up on the hook.
“We just don’t get that much drama.” She smiled.
“But HT’s back in town, so clearly that’s gonna change.
” She winked. Then her smile fell. “You sure you’re okay?
” Her glance landed on the box on the island, then back to Harley, her mouth tight.
“Yes.” She sighed. “I’m fine.”
Harley grabbed the takeout container, the ribs still warm, and opened it, the smoky scent of barbecue sauce filling the air.
“Mm-hmm,” Winter hummed. She walked up to the metal box, put her hand on it. “I miss him too.”
“Yeah. He had a good heart.”
“You know, he was clean for two years, Harley, before—”