One step. Another. Toward the Ranger Station.
Toward answers.
Toward hope—or whatever shape hope has left.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jax
The world has turned itself inside out.
Snow doesn’t fall anymore; it attacks—flung sideways by the wind in sheets that scrape my skin raw and steal my breath with every step. I can barely see the road, only the faint suggestion of its curve as it clings to the mountain’s ribs.
Ava’s voice still rattles in my skull.
“She went to the store for hot chocolate. It was supposed to be quick.”
I push harder.
Violet’s tracks appear where the road narrows: a small, repeating pattern stamped into the snow, already half-filled by drifting powder. Her boots. I’d recognize that staggered, determined stride anywhere.
“You stubborn girl,” I mutter, though the wind steals the words instantly.
I follow the prints, forcing my legs to move steadily instead of sprinting. Sprinting means slipping. Slipping means going over the edge with her. The slope off the right side of the road here rolls down into tree-choked gullies—places where snow likes to pile deep and murderous.
Dogged steps. One after another. Head low. Breathing through my scarf until ice forms along the fabric.
The tracks veer off the road after a few hundred yards, stumbling toward the steeper side, cutting through the fresh snow where the plows haven’t been yet. I swear under my breath.
“Violet, why?”
Then I remember: she likes shortcuts. Hates backtracking. I’ve watched her hop across drifts instead of walking around them. Efficient. Brave.
Dangerous as hell in weather like this.
The wind kicks up so hard I have to brace myself, leaning into it like a drunk into a wall. Snow batters my coat, claws at my hood, stings every inch of exposed skin.
I keep my eyes on the tracks.
They wobble now. Less sure. The impression of each boot print uneven, deeper on one side, as if she’s been stumbling. Dragging one foot.
My chest tightens.
“Come on, kid… hold on.”
If her blood sugar is crashing out here, in this cold—
No.
I bury the thought. I don’t have room for it. I have room for one thing only: find her.
The white thickens again, swallowing the prints until I have to bend and sweep snow aside with my gloved hand. Every time I lose them for more than a few seconds, panic surges.
“Violet!” I shout into the storm.
The mountain swallows her name. No echo. No answer.
I keep moving.
