Nate
My phone buzzes just after five a.m., and I’m already up—boots on, coffee brewed, pacing the cabin with restless energy and a war wound in my chest that never quite healed right. Greta’s still asleep in the bed behind me, curled up under my blanket like she was made to be here. And maybe she was. Hell if I know what to do withthatthought.
But I know what to do withthisone:
Travis Carrick is a ghost I need to dig up and burn to ash.
I step outside with my coffee and call Micah. He picks up on the second ring.
“You’ve got a file for me?” I ask without preamble.
“You know I do,” he says, voice low and steady like always. “Travis Carrick. Twenty-nine. Born in Arizona, bounced around the West, did some shady contracting work overseas. Clean record—on paper. But off the books? He’s got whispers attached to his name. Women. Restraining orders that never went anywhere. Settlements that never made the news.”
My stomach clenches. “He’s a pro at hiding the rot.”
“Yeah. But here’s the thing—you said Greta got a note yesterday?”
“Yeah. He left it inside the diner.”
Micah pauses. “Carrick hasn’t shown up to his job in five days. Walked off a corporate site in L.A. without a word. No phone activity. No known location since.”
My blood goes cold. “So, he’s definitely here.”
“Looks that way. I’m looping Hale in,” Micah says. “We’re not waiting until this escalates. We’ll sweep the town. See if we can flush this bastard out.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Appreciate you.”
Micah grunts. “You protect her. We’ll hunt.”
I end the call and glance through the frosted glass of the diner’s back door. Greta’s inside, flipping chairs down, humming under her breath like it’s just another day.
She doesn’t know how close the wolf is yet.
A few hours later,I’m wiping down a sticky table while Mrs. Langley compliments Greta on her “Christmas spirit” and calls me “that serious one who looks like he wrestles bears for fun.”
She’s notentirelywrong.
Greta had told me I could just sit in the corner booth and eat pie while she worked. I’d laughed.I don’t do sidelines.
She argued for about a minute before I grabbed a rag and an apron. That shut her up. Mostly. Now she keeps sneaking glances at me like she’s trying not to smile every time I refill someone’s coffee.
“I think you missed a spot,” she says now, walking by with a tray. Her ponytail bounces, and I want to grab it like a handle and?—
I shut that thought down fast.
“You trying to get me fired?” I ask.
“From a job I didn’t hire you for? Bold of you to assume I’d let you go so easily.”
She disappears into the kitchen before I can come up with a response. Probably for the best.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Micah.
I slip out the back door, into the narrow alley behind the diner. Frost curls up the dumpster and the asphalt’s slick, but I barely notice.
“Talk to me,” I say.
