The possibility hits like a fist. Three years I've been searching and it never occurred to me that Emma might have known she was in danger. That she might have hidden evidence before they killed her.
"She would have needed somewhere safe," I say. "Somewhere they wouldn't think to look."
"Somewhere you would eventually find it."
We stare at each other across the table covered in three years of failure. And for the first time since Emma died, I feel something that might be hope.
The lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then steady.
"Generator's running low," I say. "We need to conserve power."
"How long until the storm breaks?"
I check the satellite phone. Weather update shows another eighteen hours minimum. "We're stuck until tomorrow at least."
"Then we should shut down everything non-essential. Keep warm, keep the phone charged, save fuel for when we actually need it."
Practical. Smart. But shutting down the generator means no lights except what the battery bank provides. No heat except the wood stove. Closer quarters. More intimacy.
I make the call anyway. We need to survive this storm before we can save anyone else.
The cabin goes quieter when the generator cuts off. Just the wind and the fire and us.
"I should probably do something about this," I say, gesturing to my beard and running a hand through my too-long hair. "Been meaning to trim both for months."
Harlow's expression shifts. Something warmer. "I could help. I used to cut Baker's hair. I'm good at it."
The offer surprises me. "You don't have to."
"I want to." She moves to the kitchen, finds the scissors I keep in a drawer. "Sit."
I pull a chair away from the table, sit. She comes to stand in front of me, scissors in hand. The positioning puts her between my knees, close enough that I catch her scent. Clean soap and winter air.
"Tell me how you want it," she says.
"Trimmed. Not gone. Just intentional instead of neglected."
Her fingers touch my jaw, tilting my head to catch the light from the window. The contact sends electricity through me. Her hands are steady, professional, but there's nothing professional about the way my body responds.
She starts with my hair, combing through it, testing the length. "This might take a while."
"I'm not going anywhere."
The first snip of scissors is loud in the quiet. She works slowly, carefully, one hand holding my head in position while the other cuts. My hands rest on my thighs because I don't trust myself not to reach for her.
"Tilt left," she says softly.
I do. She steps closer, her leg pressing against the inside of my knee. The intimate positioning makes it hard to breathe normally. Hair falls past my shoulders, landing on the floor. She's focused, concentrating, but I can feel her awareness. The way her breath catches when my hands finally settle on her hips.
Just to steady her. That's what I tell myself.
She finishes with my hair, then moves to my beard. The scissors rasp through it. She's meticulous, checking angles, making sure it's even. Her fingers brush my jaw, my neck, my throat where the pulse beats hard and fast.
"Almost done," she murmurs.
She runs the comb through one final time, fingers following to check her work. They linger on my jaw. Trace the line where beard meets skin. Her thumb brushes my lower lip.
"I want to see more of you," she says. Her voice is rough. The double meaning clear.
