“For Izzy,” the delivery boy muttered, thrusting the box toward her.
Caitlin balanced it against her hip, twisting toward the hall table. Just a second—her back to the door.
Behind her, a breath of movement—a shift of air, the faint scuff of a boot on tile. She turned, too late.
Her gasp sliced the air. Rosie’s howls became a war cry behind the locked door.
Jason’s hand clamped over Caitlin’s mouth, dragging her back. Her scream strangled against his palm as the box toppled to the floor. She twisted, elbows jabbing, heels striking—but he barely flinched.
“You ruined everything,” Jason hissed in her ear, his voice venomous. “You were supposed to be perfect.”
Plastic zip ties bit into her wrists in an instant. She thrashed and sobbed, panic rising sharp and bright as he forced her through the back door, into the Tahoe parked tight against the porch steps. The air outside was thick with diesel and asphalt.
Her heels hammered uselessly against the seat as he slammed the door.
Rosie’s frenzy shook the cottage—snarls, claws shredding wood, the lock splintering under her weight. Hope flared in Caitlin’s chest at every crash.Come on, girl. Break through. Please.
But Jason was already behind the wheel, pulling away in broad daylight, the dump truck’s engine still masking the noise of her abduction.
Behind the wheel, his fury cooled into something more dangerous: precision. The Tahoe was a tool—temporary. He would ditch it within the hour. Evan had the cabin ready,stocked, and hidden off the Blue Ridge. They’d vanish there until the pilot was in place.
Izzy? She’d be handled first. Evan knew what to do.
This wasn’t chaos. This was control. His control. And Caitlin was his again.
Scout
Far across town, Scout sat in his Jeep, a thermos of hot coffee in the cupholder and his eyes locked on the silver Tacoma idling in the Hotel Sylva lot. The lobby door opened, and a man stepped out. Scout’s gut tightened.Evan Cole.
Knew it. I damn well knew it.The photographer. What the hell were you doing casing Darcy’s place at night—and now strutting out of a hotel in broad daylight like you’ve got nothing to hide?
Evan slid behind the wheel of the Tacoma, casual as a tourist. Scout dropped his Wrangler into gear, easing out a few cars back, shadows hiding him in the stream of local traffic.
The Tacoma rolled down Main and slowed near Blue Ridge Brew. That’s when Scout saw her.
Izzy stood on the sidewalk, hair whipped by the mountain wind. She balanced two steaming coffees in a cardboard tray, a hiking pack snug on her back. When the Tacoma slowed, she crossed in front of it and climbed into the passenger seat without hesitation—her laugh carrying like sunlight across the street.
Scout leaned forward, every muscle coiled.Jesus, Izzy. You have no idea who you’re sitting beside.His teeth ground together, fury simmering. The man spent his nights watching that cottage, and now he’s got you smiling in his truck like it’s a damn date.
Before shifting into pursuit, Scout flipped open his battered notebook. His pen scratched across the page in blocky, deliberate strokes:
09:37 — Evan Cole, Hotel Sylva → Blue Ridge Brew. Passenger: Izzy. Fork Ridge likely.
The act steadied him. Ink on paper—clean, undeniable. No matter how fast the game moved, the record would hold.
How deep does this run? What the hell’s got these people tangled up together?
He stayed on them as they headed north, winding up the Parkway, shadows sliding long across the ridges. At Fork Ridge Overlook, the Tacoma pulled in. Tourists with cameras scattered among the fiery maples, oblivious.
Izzy hopped out, adjusting her pack as Evan pointed toward a break in the trees. Together, they slipped into the unmarked trail.
They’d been climbing for hours when the trees began to thin. Evan checked his watch—2:42. Right on schedule. He quickened his pace, the easy smile fading, eyes fixed on the ridge ahead as if the light itself were a deadline.
Scout killed his engine and swung out, the crisp air cutting through his anger. He reached into the back of his Wrangler and grabbed his own pack—rope, rappel gear, essentials he never hiked without.I don’t walk these mountains unprepared. And I sure as hell won’t let her walk them blind.
A raven croaked overhead, wings beating heavy against the thinning canopy. Scout moved after them, boots silent in the mulch of red and gold leaves, his pace patient, predatory.
He knew every inch of these ridges, every hidden trail and cut-through. Out here, the mountain was his ally. Every nerve in his body burned, every instinct sharpened. Years in the sheriff’s department had trained him to recognize a man moving wrong—and Evan Cole was moving wrong.
