Chapter 17
Tom Grady — At the Sheriffs Department
They hit town with snow still clinging to the wheel wells and the journal riding the dashboard like a live thing.
Marlene kept one hand on it as if the wind might lift it through the cracked window.
Streets shone wet beneath the courthouse clock.
Neighbors lingered in doorways, watching every passing vehicle.
“You sure, Tom?” Marlene asked softly. “You’re sure it’s hers?”
He nodded. “Her name. Her badge number. First line’ll freeze your blood.”
They pulled into the sheriff’s lot where four-wheelers sat lined like hunting dogs—Burke’s, Tom’s, Scout’s, and the county quad. Rosie’s old blanket was folded on Scout’s passenger seat.
Inside, Burke met them near the bullpen, Tessa already unzipping a vest, Scout hauling on gloves.
Tom set the plastic-wrapped notebook on the table.
“Found this in my stand. Wedged in the fork of a branch.”
Burke carefully handled the leather beneath. He opened to the first page.
If you’re reading this, I’m alive—but he won’t let me leave until the story is finished. If you find this, don’t stop looking.
No one spoke. Tessa went still. Marlene pressed her knuckles to her mouth.
It wasn’t the whole story—just bait. Sara hadn’t walked that journal into a tree stand. Someone had carried it there.
Burke turned a page and let the words settle.
“He wanted it found.”
Tom’s fingers found the back of a chair.
“Everybody in Jackson County knows we go up that week. Same as clockwork. Been doing it since my daddy taught me the trail. He left it for me.”
Burke’s gaze slid to Scout.
“Gear up. We’re going back. Tessa—tell Jenkins to call for Ruger, extra fuel, evidence kits, flags, and cast sets. I want a clean track before that snow softens.”
“On it,” Tessa said.
They rode out in a loose convoy—Burke leading, Tom second, Scout on his Ranger, county on the tail. Engines thumped through the trees.
At the Grady cabin, the fire was still going in the fireplace. Marlene went in and set the kettle on.
“I’ll have hot coffee waiting when you get back.”
The Tree Stand
Tom led the way, rifle slung tight, his breath fogging in short bursts. There were no tracks but Tom’s.
Scout crouched first when they reached the stand. The rungs still bore clean arcs from Tom’s boots at dawn. Beside them, new prints cut deeper through the snow—long stride, even weight.
He brushed a glove over one, testing the edges.
“These weren’t here when you came up?”
Tom shook his head.
“No. Snow’s been steady since sunup. Whoever left ’em came through after I was here.”
Ruger angled low, nose close to the ground, white plumes curling from his muzzle.
“Let him work,” Scout said.
The shepherd moved east, fluid as shadow, down into a shallow draw that funneled toward an old logging road. The others followed, boots squeaking on crusted snow. Ruger stopped near a half-buried rut and pawed once, whining low.
“Got something?” Scout asked, crouching beside him.
A corner of clear plastic winked through the drift. Scout brushed snow away until the shape came free—wrapped, doubled, and taped. He lifted it into view, heavy at one edge with damp.
Burke was beside him in seconds.
“Let’s see it.”
Scout handed the bundle over. Burke slit the tape with his pocketknife, peeled back the plastic, and read from the first page—Sara’s handwriting, tight and careful:
Deputy Sara Anne Parker — Day 1 (assumed)
Status: Alive. Drugged, moved, dressed…
He didn’t read the rest aloud. He sealed the notebook in an evidence bag and handed it to Tessa.
“Chain it when we hit the trucks.”
The radio at his shoulder crackled—the dispatcher’s voice clipped.
“Sheriff, NWS just updated. Squall line moving in. Twenty minutes, maybe less. Winds shifting north. Advising off the ridge.”
Burke looked up. The far slope had already gone gray. Snow began to fall.
“Copy. We need to move—now.”
He pointed down the line.
“Tom, go get Marlene and get off this mountain. I’m taking Ruger to check the lower pull-offs on the way down. Scout, Tessa—flag and photo what you can, then head out. I’m not having this mountain take you too.”
Scout set flags—three along the ditch, two where Ruger found the journal—and snapped quick photos.
“Got it.”
The Storm Turns
The first gust hit as Burke climbed onto his four-wheeler. Ruger jumped up beside him, the dog’s coat flecked white before they even started moving. Visibility dropped to twenty feet.
Halfway down the ridge, the tires lost grip. The machine slid sideways, throwing a rooster tail of slush before catching again.
“Easy, boy,” Burke muttered.
Another slip. Ruger jumped down, landing clean, trotting beside the wheel as Burke throttled back to a crawl.
Static flared in the radio. He keyed the mic.
“Scout, you copy?”
A breath, then Scout’s voice.
“Copy. We’ve got the photos. Weather’s rolling fast.”
“Too treacherous,” Burke said as the four-wheeler fishtailed again. “Take cover in the cabin and stay there. We’ll try to get snowmobiles up when it breaks.”
“Understood.”
“Scout—don’t try it. I’m fighting to keep rubber on the ground as it is.”
“Copy that, Sheriff.”
The Gunfire
Up on the ridge, the world had gone white and hollow.
Scout lowered his camera for one last photo when the first round cracked past his ear and splintered the tree stand behind him.
Wood exploded.
“Down!”
He hit the snow and grabbed for Tessa at the same time. Another shot punched into bark inches from where she’d been standing. A sharp cry tore from her as something struck her temple.
“Are you hit?”
“I—I don’t think so!”
Blood traced a thin red line into her hairline.
“Wood fragment,” he muttered, already scanning.
Wind slammed into them sideways, snow ripping through the trees in sheets.
Another shot. Snow burst from the trunk beside them.
Closer.
“He’s north face!” Tessa shouted, already low, already moving. “Elevation!”
Scout caught the angle instinctively. Didn’t argue. Didn’t question.
“Cabin. Move!”
They ran bent double, boots slipping, snow blinding. The forest had vanished—just white and shadow and the roar of wind like a freight train tearing the ridge apart.
A gust hit hard enough to stagger him.
“Tessa—!”
She wasn’t there.
Just white.
Just nothing.
His pulse spiked, stealing his breath.
“Tessa!”
Then she crashed into him from the left, breath ragged, snow crusted in her lashes.
“I’m here.”
Relief punched through him, raw and furious.
“Stay on me,” he said, gripping her forearm hard enough to bruise. “Don’t lose me.”
Another shot cracked somewhere behind them. Bark rained down.
They scrambled downhill, half sliding, half running. Snow packed into their collars. Ice burned their lungs. Tessa stumbled on a buried root and went down hard, palms hitting frozen earth.
Scout hauled her upright before she could fully fall.
“You good?”
“Go!”
He didn’t let go of her arm again.
The cabin’s dark shape emerged through the storm like something imagined. The windows glowed faintly—barely a promise.
The wind shoved at their backs, trying to spin them sideways. Scout threw his shoulder into the door and forced it open, dragging her inside as another round cracked somewhere in the white.
The door slammed shut.
They stood there, chests heaving.
The Cabin
They stood inside, gasping for air, backs pressed to wood and glass that shook with every gust. Scout’s hands trembled as he peeled off his gloves—he hadn’t noticed how bad until one tumbled to the floor.
Tessa blinked snow from her lashes, tears and sleet running together. She gave a half-wild sound.
Scout swore.
“Didn’t think we’d ever see the inside of this place again.”
“Me either.” She rubbed her arms hard. “Let’s… try not to die of hypothermia.”
As the fire’s warmth reached them, their knees nearly buckled at the same moment.
Scout touched her temple, thumb steadier than his pulse.
“You sure you weren’t hit?”
“Pretty sure,” she said. “Wood caught me.”
“You’ll have a hell of a bruise.”
“Add it to the collection.”
She sank into the rocking chair. Scout crossed to the window and pulled the curtain back enough to see nothing but white.
“We’re not getting off this ridge tonight,” he said.
“You think it was him?”
He let the curtain fall.
“Yeah. I do.”
They sat in the roar of the wind, the crackle of the fire filling the rest.
Scout exhaled.
“Storm like this? He won’t stick around long. If he didn’t head off this mountain right after that last shot, we might find him tomorrow—frozen solid or buried in a drift.”
“That’s comforting,” she said weakly.
“Realistic.”
He tried the radio. Nothing but static.
“This cabin’s stood through plenty of storms,” he said. “We’ll ride this one out too.”
Tessa nodded, pulling the blanket tighter. Outside, the blizzard pressed hard against the glass. Inside, only the fire moved.