"And it got him killed."
"Which is why I'm not doing this alone anymore." I close the laptop. "We watch each other's backs. We're careful."
Finn nods slowly. "Six AM departure. Dress in layers. Pack emergency supplies in case we get stranded. And Cara?" He waits until I meet his eyes. "If anything feels wrong tomorrow, we abort immediately."
"Agreed."
We spend another hour going over maps and planning routes. Finn knows this terrain intimately, can describe every switchback and potential hazard. His tactical mind works through contingencies, backup plans, emergency protocols.
When we finally pack up the files, exhaustion crashes over me. Not just from the long day, but from the relief of sharing this burden with someone who understands what's at stake.
"Almost eleven," Finn says, glancing at the clock. "You need sleep. Tomorrow's going to be long."
"I should get back to the lodge."
"Roads are worse now than when we got here." He nods toward the bedroom door. "You'll stay. I'll take the couch."
"Finn, I can't take your bed."
"You can and you will. Tomorrow requires actual rest." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Besides, you're trusting mewith everything else. Might as well trust me to be a gentleman about sleeping arrangements."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Thank you."
"Get some sleep. I'll wake you at five thirty."
The bedroom is small but comfortable. The bed is neatly made with military corners, a glass of water already on the nightstand along with an extra blanket.
I set my alarm for five thirty and lie down fully clothed, too exhausted to care about propriety. Through the closed door, I hear Finn moving around, banking the fire and settling onto the couch.
For the first time in three years, I'm not alone in this fight. Tomorrow we find more of the evidence Tom died protecting. Tomorrow we start building the case that will expose the Marshal.
When the alarm sounds at five thirty, I'm already awake.
6
FINN
The alarm cuts through darkness at five thirty, but I'm already awake. I've been lying on the couch for the past hour, staring at the ceiling and running through contingencies for a supply run that stopped being routine the moment I agreed to help a fugitive FBI agent investigate a trafficking network.
Smart money says I should've turned her in the second I recognized her face from the news coverage. I should've called the feds and let the system sort out whether she's guilty or innocent, whether the evidence against her is real or manufactured. That would've been the safe play, the one that keeps me clear of whatever fallout is coming.
Instead, I'm pulling on my boots in the pre-dawn cold, preparing to drive into the backcountry with a woman who could destroy everything I've built here if this goes sideways.
The bedroom door opens quietly. Cara emerges fully dressed, messenger bag already packed. Her hair is pulled back in a practical braid, and she moves with efficiency born from years of early morning operations. She looks rested despite everything, though shadows mark the skin under her eyes, suggesting sleep didn't come easily.
"Coffee?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Please."
The pot brews while I grab two travel mugs from the cabinet. The familiar routine steadies my nerves—fill the reservoir, measure the grounds, flip the switch. Small rituals that anchor me when my mind wants to spiral into tactical assessments and worst-case scenarios.
Cara settles at the table, checking her camera equipment with methodical precision. She inspects each lens, tests the battery levels, verifies the memory cards have sufficient storage. The movements are automatic, muscle memory from thousands of crime scenes.
"How far is the site?" she asks without looking up.
"Three hours if the roads cooperate. Maybe four with the fresh snow." I fill both the travel mugs. Black for me, and I hand her the second mug without asking how she takes it. She accepted it black last night, so I'm betting she prefers it that way.
She wraps both hands around the mug, absorbing the heat. "And the emergency shelter?"
