Chapter 14 Sloane
SLOANE
Day three of Dane being gone and I'm losing my mind.
The cabin's too quiet and empty. Every creak of the floorboards sounds ominous, every gust of wind against the windows makes me reach for the shotgun he left propped by the door.
I don't even know how to use the fucking thing but he insisted, and I've read every book on his shelves twice, watched the limited channels his ancient TV receives until my eyes crossed, and reorganized the kitchen cabinets just to have something to do.
I need to get out and see other people before I go stir crazy. Dane would tell me it's reckless, that staying inside is the only way to stay safe. But Dane isn't here, and if I spend one more hour staring at these four walls, I'm gonna start talking to the furniture.
The barn seems the safest option for entertainment, so I bundle up in Dane's spare jacket and head outside.
The afternoon sun is weak, filtered through gray clouds that promise more snow before nightfall.
Everything is white—trees, ground, roof—the world buried beneath inches of powder that fell two nights ago and now crunches under my sneakers.
Inside the barn, the air is cold but still, sheltered from the wind.
I flip on the overhead light and look around, really look, at what Dane keeps out here.
I've seen his workbench stockpiled with tools and a strange assortment of animal hooves, hunting knives, and containers of various sorts of screws and bolts. And he has an old radio perched on the corner that looks like it hasn’t worked since the Eisenhower administration.
I move deeper into the space, past the organized areas into the back where shadows gather. Here, stacked against the wall, are cardboard boxes with dates scrawled on the sides in black marker. They look like they've been collecting dust since he moved in here, like he never fully unpacked.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I pull down the nearest box and open it, expecting clothes or dishes or the mundane contents of someone's previous life.
Instead, I find books. Lots of them. Fiction, mostly—thrillers, mysteries, science fiction.
A whole life's worth of reading material packed away and forgotten. I had no idea he was a reader.
It makes me smile.
The next box holds photo albums. I hesitate before opening one, knowing I'm crossing a line.
But I'm already here, and the sudden need to understand him better overrides my guilt.
I flip through pages of images—Dane as a teenager, lean and dangerous even then.
Dane with other men, all of them armed, wearing expressions that tells me they're no strangers to violence.
But there are no images of him with people who look like siblings or parents.
I feel sad about that, and I make a mental note to ask him about his family.
I close the album and return it to the box, suddenly feeling intrusive.
This is his past, and I have no right to dig through it without permission.
He may be upset with me for prying. After all, he hasn't once tried to open up and tell me about anything other than his history with the Mob, so if he walked in and saw me here, I know he'd flip.
Moving on, I navigate around a tarp-covered shape near the back wall.
The tarp is dusty and undisturbed, and when I pull it back I find a snowmobile.
It's an older model, probably from the late nineties, but it looks well-maintained beneath the dust. The key's missing from the ignition, but it looks like it still works.
Freedom sitting right here, capable of getting me to town and back without taking his truck, without leaving obvious tracks on the road. I could get coffee, see other humans, be back before dark, and Dane would never know.
The idea starts percolating and I'm already moving.
I move to the tool chest and start rifling through drawers.
Screwdrivers, wrenches, nails—everything organized and labeled.
The bottom drawer holds miscellaneous items, and there, tucked beneath a rag, is a key ring with several small keys. One of them has to fit the snowmobile.
It takes three tries, but the third key slides into the ignition and my mood immediately declares victory. In my head, I'm already drifting across the chalky powder with the cold air biting my skin, but my hopes are dashed the instant I turn the key and the damn thing doesn't start.
In fact, the engine doesn't turn over at all, and I spend the next twenty minutes checking the oil and fuel, my hands going numb despite the gloves I found hanging near the door.
And while I know nothing about engines, I am determined to not give up.
So after pulling out what looks like the spark plug and wiping it on Dane's too-large jacket, I slide it back in and give it one more shot.
It roars to life, echoing through the barn so loudly it startles me, but I'm giddy. I let it run for a minute to warm up, then kill it and wheel the snowmobile outside. The runners glide easily over the snow, and I feel a surge of excitement I haven't experienced in weeks.
Inside the cabin, I grab a handful of change from Dane's nightstand—maybe ten dollars in coins and ones—and pocket it. Enough for coffee. That's all I'm getting. Coffee, maybe a pastry, then straight back.
Simple and safe and oh, so thrilling.
I bundle up in layers, pull on the warmest hat I can find, and return to the snowmobile.
The engine starts on the first try this time, and I guide it away from the cabin, following the natural contours of the land toward town.
The ride is exhilarating—cold air whipping past, snow spraying up from the runners, the landscape opening up before me in endless white.
I'd forgotten how much I love this, the freedom of outdoor sport, the rush of speed and movement.
Erin and I go hiking all the time, and we've only done snowmobiles once or twice, but God, the thrill of it never gets old.
I'm at one with nature until the small town sprouts up from the earth in front of me.
I circle around the back of the diner, parking the snowmobile where it's less visible from the main road, and make my way on foot to the entrance.
The diner is warm, packed with locals escaping the cold.
Christmas decorations cover every surface—garland wrapped around the counter, lights strung across the windows, a small tree in the corner blinking with multicolored bulbs.
The smells of coffee and baking bread make my stomach growl as I roll my eyes at how quickly this town bypassed the season of thankfulness to jump right into commercialism just like they do in New York.
I slide into a booth near the back and a waitress I don't recognize brings me a menu. "What can I get you, hon?"
"Hot cocoa, please. And whatever pastry Erin has fresh." I don't even bother taking the menu, and I notice her nametag says Colleen, which is strange because I've never met her, but I see Erin bopping around and ignore the new face.
She smiles. "Apple turnover's fresh. I'll bring you one."
While I wait, I listen to the conversations around me. Two women at the next table are discussing Thanksgiving plans. A man at the counter is arguing with someone about snow tire regulations. It's all perfectly mundane and normal and I am in heaven having real humans around me for a little while.
Ellie appears from the kitchen, green eyes bright as she surveys her domain. She spots me and her face lights up with recognition.
"Sarah! Didn't expect to see you in town." She slides into the booth across from me without invitation. "Where's your brother?"
"Hunting." The lie rolls off my lips the way the coffee slips through them. "He's tracking a bear, I think."
"Well, I'm glad you came in. Wanted to ask if you'll be around for our Thanksgiving feast. We do a big community thing here at the diner. Turkey, all the fixings, everyone invited. Your brother never comes, but maybe you could convince him?"
The invitation is genuine and warm, and I have no idea how to respond to her.
She was so nice to invite us to the Halloween thing and Dane hated me for agreeing to come.
Then there's the issue of my real-life drama.
Will I be here in two days? Will Dane be back? Will we even be alive by Thanksgiving?
"I'm not sure how long I'm staying," I say carefully. "My plans are kind of up in the air."
"Well, the offer stands. Door's open from noon until we run out of food." She pats my hand. "You look thin, hon. Been eating enough up there in the woods?"
"I'm fine. Dane's actually a decent cook."
"Miracles never cease." She starts to stand, then pauses. "You doing alright? You seem a little on edge."
"Just cabin fever. Needed to get out for a bit."
Ellie nods her understanding. "I get that. Winter up here can be brutal if you're not used to it. You need anything, you come find me, okay?"
The waitress brings my cocoa and turnover, and Ellie returns to the kitchen. I sip the cocoa slowly, savoring the warmth and sweetness, watching the diner's activity with contentment I haven't felt in days.
Then the door opens and Wade Carver walks in.
My stomach drops as he scans the room, and his eyes land on me with immediate recognition. I squirm and try to avoid eye contact, but he heads straight for my booth.
"Sarah," he says, stopping right beside me. He holds his hat in his hands and I see the glow of his balding head reflecting the fluorescent light from the overhead bulbs. "Funny running into you here."
"Sheriff." I keep my voice steady, casual. "Just getting some coffee."
"Where's your brother?"
"Hunting… Gotta put meat on the table."
"Hunting, huh." Wade's tone makes it clear he doesn't believe me. "Hunting what, exactly?"
"I don't ask about his business." True enough, I suppose, because he really is hunting. Just not the bear I told Ellie. Dane is hunting a madman, and I'm not at liberty to discuss why.
He pulls out his phone and sets it on the table between us. On the screen is a news report—my face, my name, the word MISSING in bold letters. "You want to tell me who you really are?"
My mouth goes dry and the coffee suddenly tastes too bitter.
"I'm his sister. I told you that."
"You look an awful lot like this woman." He taps the screen. "Sloane Grady. Missing from New York City. Last seen October seventh at a nightclub in Manhattan. Authorities suspect foul play."
"Lots of people look similar." My hands are shaking, so I clasp them in my lap where he can't see.
"I don't think I look anything like her.
She has puffy cheeks, see?" I point out my round face on the image knowing I've lost several pounds from not eating right out here and the stress that's eating me alive.
"I guess you could say we look like we're related…
" Faking this shit is worse than just telling the truth and letting the hatchet come down, but Dane is relying on me.
"So you're saying you're not Sloane Grady?"
"I'm saying I'm Sarah Strouse, Dane's sister." It doesn't feel right lying to a police officer and now it feels flimsy and transparent, like he's looking right through me. "I don't know who that woman is."
Wade leans forward, elbows on the table. "Here's the thing, Sarah. I've been a sheriff for twenty years. I know when people are lying to me."
"I'm not—"
"You show up in my town the same week this woman goes missing.
You're the right age, right build, right coloring.
And your brother—who I've never fully bought as ex-military—suddenly has a sister nobody's ever heard of…
" His voice is low, meant only for me. "So I'm going to ask you one more time. Who are you really?"
The diner has gone quiet. Or maybe it's just that all I can hear is my own pulse pounding in my ears. I'm trapped. If I admit I'm Sloane Grady, Wade will have questions I can't answer. If I maintain the lie, he'll dig deeper, and eventually, he'll find proof.
"I need to use the restroom," I stammer, starting to slide out of the booth, desperate to escape, to think, to figure out what to do.
Wade doesn't stop me, but his eyes follow as I stand. "Don't go far. We're not done talking."
I head toward the back, past the restrooms, past the kitchen. Ellie's at the counter now, watching the exchange with concern. I can't read her expression—sympathy, suspicion, curiosity, all of it mixed together, but I push through the back door into the alley behind the diner.
The snowmobile sits where I left it, covered in a light dusting of fresh snow, and I'm about to head for it when I hear engines.
Three black SUVs roll down Main Street too slowly for the speed limit.
They're out of place here just like me, and too expensive for such a small town.
The windows are tinted dark, and as they pass I can see men in suits through the windshields.
These men aren't tourists or locals, and I get a wretched feeling in the pit of my stomach.
My blood turns to ice as I walk toward the snowmobile keeping my head down.
I know exactly who that is and I know precisely why they're here.
And now the anxiety I have about Dane being gone has turned to utter panic.
Why are those men showing up and not him?
Have they hurt him? Is he even coming back?
The snowmobile flies over the white landscape, engine screaming, and I pray I make it back before they figure out where I came from.
I was supposed to get coffee. That's all. Just coffee and a pastry and then back home.
But I've exposed us both and potentially put a target on our location. And Dane isn't here to protect me from them if they come after me and follow the snowmobile tracks.
The cabin appears ahead, and I've never been so relieved to see anything in my life.
I kill the engine near the barn and run inside, slamming the door behind me and engaging every lock.
Then I grab the shotgun and position myself by the window where I can see the driveway.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingers and toes, and all I can think about is whether Dane is still alive.
If Cal Maddox just rocked up in Sutter's Gap and Dane is in New York, who's going to save me? And if he already killed Dane, does that mean there's no hope?