“Do we have a specific destination?” she asked, watching as Nash glanced between the road and his phone, where he’d pulled up a detailed map of the area.
“I’ve been studying the property lines,” Nash said, navigating a particularly sharp curve with one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing to his phone. “The Olympus Foundation owns almost everything on the eastern face, but there’s a section of public land that butts up against it about halfway up. If the broken arrow symbol is marking cache sites, there’s a good chance we might find something in that area.”
Amy nodded, impressed with his thoroughness. There was something oddly comforting about Nash in research mode—the focused crease between his brows, the methodical way he laid out facts, the lawyer emerging from beneath the cowboy exterior.
“I talked with Brooks this morning,” he continued. “The Olympus Foundation was established in 1956 by someone named Anthony Rinaldi.”
“Rinaldi?” Amy frowned. “That name sounds familiar.”
“It should. Rinaldi was Sophia Ferrante’s maiden name—Vincent Ferrante’s mother.”
Amy’s heart quickened. “So the Ferrantes own Mount Olympus?”
“Not directly, but through a cousin or something. Brooks is still untangling the family connections, but it’s definitely them.” Nash flashed her a quick look. “We’re on the right track.”
The confirmation that the Ferrantes were connected to Mount Olympus should have terrified her. Instead, Amy felt a strange sense of vindication. After eight years of running, of looking over her shoulder, she was finally moving toward the truth rather than away from it.
Nash pulled into a small parking area next to a trailhead. Only two other cars were there—not surprising for a Saturday morning in April when most hikers would choose the more popular trails.
Her ankle throbbed dully as she stepped out of the truck, testing her weight on it. The tight wrapping Nash had so carefully applied that morning helped, but it wouldn’t be enough for a strenuous hike. She was grateful for the collapsible hiking stick he’d produced from somewhere in his garage.
“We can just drive around to some overlooks,” Nash offered, noticing her wince as she took a few tentative steps. “There’s no need to push it.”
“No,” Amy said firmly. “I need to see the caves. According to the app, there’s one about half a mile up this trail that might have markings.”
Nash looked skeptical but didn’t argue. “Alright, but we take it slow. And you tell me the second it gets too painful.”
The trail started out gently enough, winding through stands of scrub oak and maple trees just beginning to bud. The earth was still dampened from the snowmelt, making the path muddy in places. Amy focused on each step, placing the hiking stick carefully to avoid slipping.
“Any luck with your department contacts?” Nash asked as they walked.
Amy shook her head. “Nothing. Dr. Martinez hasn’t returned my calls, and my contact at the Historical Society is still unreachable.” She frowned, the coincidence bothering her more than she wanted to admit. “It’s strange.”
“Maybe not,” Nash said, his voice taking on that lawyer tone she was beginning to recognize. “If the Ferrantes are involved, they could have connections throughout the university. Wealthy families often make substantial donations.”
The thought sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the mountain air. Could her academic life—the safe, normal existence she’d built for herself—be compromised too?
They continued in silence for a while, the only sounds their footsteps on the trail and the occasional call of a bird overhead. About fifteen minutes in, the path steepened, forcing Amy to lean more heavily on her stick.
Nash slowed his pace, casually offering his arm without making a big deal of it. Amy hesitated only briefly before taking it, grateful for the support.
“Tell me more about your research,” Nash said, clearly trying to distract her from the discomfort. “What first connected Porter Rockwell to the broken arrow symbol?”
Amy welcomed the distraction. “It started with his journals. Rockwell kept detailed records of his travels, but they were written in a kind of cipher—substitution codes, mostly, but with some unique symbols mixed in. The broken arrow appeared whenever he mentioned hiding places or secure locations.”
“And you cracked his code?” Nash sounded impressed.
“Not alone. It took several historians working together, and even then, we only deciphered portions.” She smiled at the memory of the breakthrough. “The first time I saw the broken arrow symbol in his journal, it was paired with a rough map of what’s now the Big Cottonwood Canyon area.”
The trail curved sharply, revealing a rock face ahead with a dark opening visible at its base.
“There’s a cave,” Amy said. “I wonder if that cave is the one Bill mentioned.” It was a modest opening, not particularly impressive, but something about it called to her.
Nash approached cautiously, peering inside with his phone’s flashlight. “Looks like a standard cave,” he reported. “Nothing unusual that I can see from here.”
Amy joined him at the entrance, the cool air from the cave washing over her face. It did indeed look ordinary—just a shallow depression in the rock face, perhaps fifteen feet deep.
“There’s another trail,” Nash said suddenly, pointing to a barely visible path leading behind the cave. “Not sure it’s maintained, though.”
