And then there was Aiden, whose defensiveness felt excessive. Whether that was his nature or a sign of something deeper, I wasn’t sure.
I slid into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition, and rested my hands on the wheel. Then my phone lit up with an unknown number.
This is Willow.
I know where Logan is, but please don’t tell my dad.
I’ll send the address.
A few seconds later, a drop pin appeared, and my heart raced.
Logan wasn’t just missing.
He was hiding.
And whatever he knew, it was time I heard his side of the story.
All of it.
22
After a quick stop at home to change into more outdoorsy attire, I left the house, hopeful I’d find Logan and get him to talk. Willow’s pin took me to the Lost Prairie Wilderness, a rugged stretch of land about an hour from Cambria. It was best known for its high, jagged peaks and oak woodlands, which wound around a conifer forest. If Logan was trying not to be found, it was the perfect place to hide.
I drove until the road narrowed to a single lane, and when pavement gave way to dirt, I parked and continued on foot. Stepping out of the car, I breathed in a mixture of sunbaked sage and damp soil.
As I made my way deeper into the area, the wind worked through the branches above me, rattling them like bones.
After almost an hour of walking, I spotted a tent half hidden behind a cluster of scrub oak, set beside a pickup truck. The truck matched the one seen in the gas station’s surveillance video. The tent’s faded blue fabric sagged on one side, as though the pole meant to support it had just about given out.
I approached the tent with caution, listening for any sounds coming from the inside, but there weren’t any. When I reached the opening, I crouched down and peeled the flap back, peeking inside. A sleeping bag lay twisted near the back next to a stack of protein bar wrappers. But what stood out the most was what appeared to be dried blood along the tent flap near the zipper.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
If Logan had been staying here, he wasn’t here now.
Hoping he was nearby, I backed away from the tent and turned, shouting, “Logan Lambert? My name is Georgiana Germaine, and I’m a private investigator. If you’re in trouble, I’m here to help.”
My words were met with silence.
I tried again.
“Logan, I know you’re out here. Please, I just want to talk.”
It felt like my words fell into the open air, and then I heard it. The sound of footsteps—someone running.
I glanced around and caught a flash of movement, a young man sprinting through the trees, heading uphill.
“Logan, wait!” I shouted.
When it became clear he wasn’t going to stop, I chased after him, branches slapping at my arms as I navigated the terrain. He was fast, but in his panic to get away, his foot caught on a root, and he stumbled, giving me the chance to catch up.
At first I thought he’d jump back up and take off again, but he didn’t. He turned, looking up at me with sad eyes, as if accepting defeat.
His face was gaunt and smeared with dirt, his T-shirt stiff with sweat and grime. His eyes were red and raw from what I assumed was a lack of sleep, and one finger was wrapped in a bandage.
“Why did you run?” I asked.
