Iwake to wind screaming against the cabin walls and the memory of Harlow Kane's mouth on mine.
The couch where I slept feels harder than usual. My back aches. But the discomfort isn't what kept me awake. It's the memory replaying on loop. Her pulling back. The ring in my pocket pressing between us like Emma's ghost refusing to let go.
Gray light filters through the windows. Dawn, maybe. Hard to tell with the storm. I sit up, scrub my hands over my face, and feel the beard that needs attention. The beard Harlow's fingers might have touched last night if we hadn't stopped.
The bedroom door opens. She emerges wearing the same clothes from yesterday, hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back. Different. Softer. But her eyes are wary.
"Morning," she says.
"Morning." I stand, needing something to do with my hands. "Coffee?"
"Please."
We move around each other in the small kitchen like we're dancing. Careful not to touch. Careful not to get too close. The ease from last night is gone, replaced by this awkward awareness of what almost happened.
I pump water. Measure coffee grounds. Light the propane burner. All automatic movements while my brain spins through what I should say. Should I apologize? Acknowledge it? Pretend it didn't happen?
"About last night," Harlow starts.
"We don't have to talk about it."
"I think we do." She leans against the counter, arms crossed. "That kiss happened. We can't just ignore it."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Maybe that you feel it too. This thing between us." Her eyes meet mine. Direct. No games. "Or maybe that I'm reading it wrong and you were just looking for comfort."
The coffee starts to percolate. I watch it rather than her because looking at her makes it harder to think straight.
"You're not reading it wrong," I say finally. "I feel it. Have since the first time in that equipment shed. You looking like you could take on the world and win."
"I pulled back last night because of Emma's ring." Her voice is quiet. "I felt it in your pocket. And I realized you're still carrying her with you everywhere. That maybe you weren't ready for this."
"The ring." I grip my coffee cup tighter. "Yeah. I carry it. Have for three years. Can't seem to let it go."
"I don't expect you to let her go, Rhys. She was your wife. You loved her." Harlow meets my eyes. "But I need to know if that ring is a wall between us or just a memory you're not ready to put down yet."
"I don't know," I admit. "I thought it was just grief. Just me holding onto her because I failed to protect her. But maybe it's fear too. Fear that if I move forward, I'm admitting she's really gone."
"I understand that." She takes a sip of her coffee. "Baker died because I made the wrong call. Logically, I know the reviewboard cleared me. I know it was a ricochet, a freak accident, one of those things that happens in the field. But every morning I wake up knowing he's dead and I'm not, and logic doesn't fix that."
We drink our coffee in silence. The storm batters the cabin. Snow piles against the windows in drifts. We're completely cut off out here. Just us and the weather and the ghosts we carry.
"I want to show you something," I hear myself say. "If you're willing."
"What?"
"My files on Emma. Everything I've gathered over three years. Every dead end, every person who stonewalled me, every piece of evidence that doesn't add up." I set my cup down. "You have FBI training. Maybe you'll see something I missed."
Understanding crosses her face. "You're asking for my help."
"I'm asking you to look at it with fresh eyes. Professional eyes." I move to the bedroom, pull the box from under the bed where I keep it hidden. "And maybe I'm trusting you with something I haven't shown anyone else."
The box is heavy. Three years of obsession made physical. I carry it to the table, set it down between us.
Harlow doesn't say anything. Just watches as I open it and start pulling out files.
Accident reports. Photos of the crash site. Emma's medical records. Witness statements. My own notes, pages and pages of them. Maps marking where she drove, where the accident happened, where the black truck might have come from.
