My mind raced, mapping the tree line, the coulee beyond, the faint paths deer used that could lead to a hidden road. It was too much land and not enough time.
I forced myself to breathe. In, out. Control. If we rushed blind, we’d miss what mattered.
“We call this in,” Holt said.
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “And wait.”
“And bring law down on it,” Holt corrected. “Wyatt, you want her alive. You want her back. You don’t want to stomp through here and wipe out the only tracks we’ve got.”
He was right. And I hated him for it.
I nodded once and pulled my phone out, hands steady only because I didn’t have a choice.
I called the detachment and told them where we were. I told them we’d found a likely suspect vehicle, an abandoned structure, recent tracks, and possible hair evidence. I told them we hadn’t entered further into the bush beyond the immediate shack area.
I lied about how close I’d come to doing exactly that.
The constable’s voice sharpened. They said units were on the way. They said to stay put. They said not to engage.
When I ended the call, the air felt thick. The light outside turned low and bruised, dusk settling into the trees like a lid.
Evan shifted, restless. “We’re just going to stand here.”
“No,” I said, and my voice came out quiet and deadly. Travis looked like he wanted to argue, but Holt’s hand landed on hisshoulder, firm.
I stepped out of the shack and stared into the trees where the tracks vanished.
Somewhere out there, she was breathing. Somewhere out there, she was alive, because I refused to accept any other possibility.
And somewhere out there, Colin was walking around wearing his sickness like a suit, convinced he could control the world by controlling her.
I stood in the fading light with my hands curled into fists and the taste of metal in my mouth, and I let the promise settle in my chest like a brand.
I hadn’t found her yet.
But I’d found a thread.
And I was going to follow it until it became a rope, until it became a noose, until it dragged the truth into daylight, whether Colin liked it or not.
Thirty-Four
Tessa
The cabin looked worse up close, like a carcass rotting in the sun, waiting for someone to put it out of its misery. The weather chewed the boards into a sickly, splintered grey. The porch sagged in the middle, bowed like a snapped spine. One shutter hung by a single rusted hinge, clicking softly in the wind—a rhythmic, patient sound that felt less like a breeze and more like a countdown.
Colin waited while I stood there, rooted to the dirt. He let my eyes rake over the shattered windows and the weeds choking the steps. He let me look at the horizon, where the land stretched out in every direction with nothing to interrupt the emptiness but scrub brush and the skeletal line of distant poplars.
“Go on,” he said, his voice a silk-wrapped blade. “It’s not going to bite. And if it does, there’s nobody that can hear your screams.” He laughed like he made a joke, before he glared at me again, eyes cold, jaw clenched.
My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow. My throat felt scraped raw, the skintight from holding back a scream I refused to give him. Even in the open air, I could smell hiscologne—expensive, cloying, and entirely wrong for the wilderness.
“What did you do to her?” I managed. My voice sounded thin, like it belonged to someone else.
He tilted his head, studying me with the clinical interest of a boy watching an insect in a jar. “Who?”
“You know who. Maddy.”
He sighed, the sound heavy with performed boredom. “Nothing. I didn't touch her. I didn't talk to her. I didn't even step on her porch.”
