Page 31 of North

“I’m afraid to hang up.”

The line went dead.

He found the café and ordered a coffee to go. Ham sent him the pin, and he followed it, headed north out of town.

The road led northwest, past a few wineries, then into the mountains, broken now and again by pockets of farmland, lakes, and rising peaks. The rain had started, the sky turning dark, drops pounding so hard he had to pull over. Torrents splashed down the mountains into the rivers along the roads. He turned on the heat in the car, pulled out, and kept creeping along.

The road fell away into deep gulleys. One wrong move and he’d be a floater.

Ham finally called again.

“I was getting lonely.” Frankly, he could barely hear the man over the thunder of the storm.

“Sheesh, are you in a war zone?”

“I can barely see the road. Can you track me?”

A moment, then, “Yeah. Good news. Her phone just fired up. Signal’s solid. I’ll send you another pin.”

“How far am I?”

“Maybe thirty miles.”

Could be thirty hours with this rain. “Great. I’m hanging up now.”

He pressed her number in his favorites.

The phone rang. And rang. Voicemail. C’mon!

He tried again as he rounded a curve, the little car working to putter up the mountain. Rain pelted the windshield. The wipers squeaked, and the defroster wheezed, and her phone just kept going to voicemail.

Maybe she was fine. Maybe she was having lunch with some nice farm family. Maybe she’d seen his name on the screen and declined the call.

And that just sent a fist into his gut.

The road wound north, following the river. Dark clouds pressed against the mountains. His third call went straight to voicemail, like she’d turned off her phone.

Or someone had turned it off for her?

No, no, he was losing his mind. Tired. Not enough coffee, clearly.

The highway narrowed, shouldered by steep banks thick with wet pines. The mountain rose on either side as Ham’s coordinates pointed him up some country road that probably turned to mud three miles in.

The Sonic’s engine whined as the car flew down a hill.

Lightning split the sky. The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge.

Another memory surfaced—her falling asleep against his shoulder on a transport plane out of Lagos. The way she’d mumbled something about feeling safe, like his presence was enough to keep the darkness at bay. He’d sat there for hours, barely breathing, wondering how someone who’d seen his capacity for violence could still look at him with such trust.

He’d clearly lost that trust in Mariposa.

The Sonic’s tires hit standing water. He corrected, but the tiny car wandered. The heater couldn’t keep up with the dampness seeping through his clothes.

The road curved ahead, disappearing into sheets of rain. His phone showed one bar of service, then none. The coordinates pointed another twelve miles north, but the clouds had turned the morning dark as dusk.

Lightning flashed again. In that instant, he saw it—water rushing across the road ahead, carrying branches and debris. He hit the brakes. The Sonic slid, tires hunting for grip on the wet pavement. He cranked the wheel, but physics won. The car slewed sideways, back end dropping into the ditch with a sickening crunch.

The engine died.