But I know the truth.
If I'd pulled back when Baker told me to. If I'd let HRT take the shot earlier. If I'd been faster, smarter, better?—
Baker would still be alive.
I turn in my resignation six weeks later. Can't do it anymore. Can't stand in a room and promise people I can save them when I couldn't save the man I loved.
The FBI tries to change my mind. Offers counseling, extended leave, desk assignments. I decline all of it.
For eight months, I drift. Therapy appointments I barely remember. A studio apartment in Arlington that feels like a tomb. Job offers from private security firms that I let pile up unopened because the thought of being responsible for anyone's safety makes my hands shake.
Then an email arrives. Private security position in Alaska. Remote mining site in Whitewater Junction. Twelve-hour shifts patrolling a facility in the middle of nowhere. Company housing included—a small cabin on the property.
No hostages. No negotiations. No one depending on me to be perfect.
I'm on a plane three days later.
My new boss hands me the security schedule—twelve-hour shifts patrolling, nothing else required.
"Sounds perfect," I tell him.
He doesn't ask why someone with my credentials would take a job this far below my pay grade.
I don't tell him I wake up screaming every night with Baker's blood warm on my hands. Don't tell him his last words loop through my head on repeat:Not your fault.
He was wrong.
But at least here, when the nightmares come, no one's close enough to hear me fall apart.
1
RHYS
Whitewater Junction, Alaska
Present Day
The coffee tastes like ash.
I set the mug down on the scarred wood of my desk and stare at the stack of incident reports that need filing. Noise complaint from the Hendersons about their neighbor's dog. Vandalism at the gas station. Someone's been dumping trash on Old Mill Road again.
Small-town problems. Problems my grandfather handled. Problems my father handled. Problems that used to matter before I learned how easily a black truck can force a car off Mountain Pass Road and disappear into the night.
The beard itches. Reaches halfway down my chest now, tangled and unkempt. Hair brushes my shoulders when I turn my head. Deputy Wells mentioned it yesterday, suggested maybe I should clean up a bit. Present a better image for the town.
I didn't respond. Just looked at him until he shifted his weight and found somewhere else to be.
Emma's wedding ring sits in my pocket. Always there. Gold band worn smooth from twelve years of her wearing it, of her hands moving through the world, of her touching me. I roll it between my fingers. The weight familiar. Three years and two months since I pulled it off her cold hand in the morgue. Three years and two months since someone took her.
Not the mountain. Someone who's still out there.
The phone rings. Dispatch, probably. Another noise complaint or missing pet or tourist who got lost trying to find the scenic overlook. I let it ring four times before picking up.
"Sheriff Blackwater."
"Rhys." Deputy Wells's voice is tight. "We've got a situation at the old mining road. You need to see this."
Wells doesn't rattle easy. Ten years on the force, former Marine, seen his share of bad. If he's calling it a situation, it's more than a fender bender.
