Somewhere between exploding cars and shared dinners. Between his quiet prayers and willingness to risk his careerfor her daughter's safety. Trust had snuck up on her like snow—quiet, gradual, until suddenly the whole landscape was transformed.
"There." Cory pointed ahead. "Fresh tracks veering off toward the Ellis trailhead."
They followed the twin ruts through deepening snow. The truck's headlights caught the tire treads—definitely Tom's vehicle, based on the wear pattern she'd noticed at their house. Tracks wavering slightly, suggesting emotional driving. No sign of other vehicles following or meeting him.
Cory's phone rang through the SUV's Bluetooth. Janet Morrison, again.
"Did you find him? Is he okay?" The older woman’s voice was pitched high with anxiety.
"We're following his tracks now," Cory said carefully. "Janet, has Tom ever talked about hurting himself?"
"No. Never. He's not... he wouldn't..." But doubt crept into her voice. "He's just been so confused lately. Forgetting things, getting angry over nothing. What if he--?" The question ended in a heart-wrenching sob.
"We'll find him," Cory assured her. "Stay by your phone."
"There." Cory pointed ahead.
Tom's truck sat abandoned at the trailhead, already wearing a dusting of fresh snow. Cory positioned their vehicle for quick escape—nose out, angled for cover if needed.
Exactly what she would have done.
They exited in synchronized silence, weapons holstered but accessible. The night pressed in, filled with the whisper of falling snow and distant wind through pines. Izzy moved to Tom's truck, peering through the window with her flashlight.
"Keys still in the ignition," she reported through the comm. "Rifle rack empty."
Cory crouched by the front bumper. "Engine block's cold. He's been here at least an hour, maybe more."
Large boot prints led away from the truck—a clear trail in the snow, heading up the narrow path toward the ranger station. Single set, no attempt to hide his passage.
"Moving to follow trail," Cory said. "You see what I see?"
"Copy. Single tracks, steady gait. He's not running." Izzy fell into step beside him. "Also not wandering. He knows exactly where he's going."
The path climbed steadily through thick pines. The cabin was at least a quarter mile from the trailhead, if she remembered correctly. Snow muffled their footsteps, but also any sounds from ahead. The moon broke free of clouds momentarily, illuminating the trail like a silver ribbon through the darkness.
"Janet said this was their place," Cory murmured. "Where he proposed forty years ago."
"Romantic," Izzy said. "If he wasn't fleeing a crime scene with a rifle."
The trees thinned ahead, opening into a small clearing. The ranger station squatted in the center—a relic from the 1950s. Built to last. Heavy log construction, small, high windows boarded up tight for the season, a stone chimney that had probably seen a thousand winter storms. The kind of shelter that could withstand anything the High Sierra threw at it.
Including desperate men with guns.
"Movement," Cory breathed, pointing to the golden glow spilling from under the one door.
They approached from the tree line, using available cover. To her left, she noted tracks running to and from the wood pile. Definitely someone inside. The chimney released a thin stream of smoke—Tom had started a fire. Planning to stay awhile, then.
Or planning to make a last stand.
They circled to the front, finding the heavy wooden door closed but not barricaded. No defensive positions. No indication Tom expected company. Hopefully, they’d find nothing more dangerous than a confused older man seeking shelter in a place that held better memories.
Izzy checked her Glock one final time, then met Cory's eyes. In the moonlight, his face was all sharp angles and determination. He'd backed her play without question, followed her into danger because she needed him to.
Trust him,Kenji had said.
She bowed her head, lifting a quick prayer of thanks to her Savior for putting Cory in her path.
They positioned themselves on either side of the door. Standard entry protocol. She'd go low, he'd go high. The familiar pre-breach tension settled over them like a second skin.
