Brock’s nostrils flared. “How fucking stupid is that?”
“Very,” Ace agreed. He would’ve gone with a name that hinted at the missing eyes. Like the Vision Thief or a title equally dumb like that.
Behind the bar, Amka wiped down the counter. “Are you anywhere closer to finding that killer?”
Ophelia shook her head. “No. We haven’t had any murders for a few months.” Her tone stayed measured, though fatigue edged beneath it. “I’d like to believe the killer died somewhere out in the wilderness, but he could just be taking a break.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Dutch thinks he’s just hunkered down for a bit, and I trust Dutch’s gut.”
Ace nodded. “I would, too.” Trooper Dutch Reddick was a gnarly old Alaska Wildlife Trooper with a face carved by weather and stubbornness. He’d talked Christian into partnering with him on the investigation in an effort to groom him to take over, once Christian finished the training. Like he needed it, considering his time in special ops. But the state had rules.
Brock scrubbed a hand through his thick hair. “Hey. Did you see Damian actually in town last night?”
Ace glanced up. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”
Brock frowned. “I don’t know. He doesn’t usually come to town except for lunch once in a while.”
Ace flexed his ankle on the floor. “He just had something I wanted him to look into.”
Brock’s eyes sharpened. “What?”
Ace smirked. He wasn’t going to share May’s business. That was up to her. “Nothing you need to worry about. Today, anyway.”
“Hmph,” Brock muttered.
The tavern door slammed open hard enough to rattle the glass. A young woman rushed inside, breathless, her eyes wide as she scanned the room before locking onto Brock. “Hey—are you the sheriff?”
Brock straightened immediately. “Yeah.”
“Oh, good.” Relief washed across her face. “The lady down at the sheriff station told me you’d be here.” She looked barely past twenty with long black hair falling around her shoulders and pretty brown eyes bright with panic. Freckles dusted across her nose. She wore touristy jean shorts with a pink T-shirt showing a bear caught on a boat. “My friend didn’t come back last night.”
Ace stiffened. Crap. They hadn’t had to search for a lost person since early winter.
Brock shifted into calm authority. “Okay. Slow down. Who’s your friend?”
“Laura. Laura Jordan.” The woman wrung her hands, her cheeks pale beneath the flush of exertion. “We’re up here with a bunch of friends from Montana State for a couple of weeks.”
Brock glanced at his watch. “When did you last see Laura?”
“Last night here at the tavern,” she said.
Ophelia stood. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Blue Beaver Campground.” The words tumbled out quickly. “We went river rafting yesterday, and we were supposed to go fishing later today, but there’s a bad storm moving in, so we decided to wait until tomorrow. I mean, once we find Laura.” She wrung her hands. “I took a migraine pill and pretty much passed out last night. She didn’t come back.”
“Okay. Take a deep breath.” Brock dropped several bills onto the table, the motion automatic. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, his gun strapped to his thigh in plain view, badge catching the morning light.
Ophelia stood beside him in jeans and a crisp white shirt. The weather had turned warm enough that she’d skipped her usual jacket, though the alertness never left her posture. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Candy. Candy Nelson.”
“Okay, Candy,” Ophelia said. “Start with the night at the bar and run us through what happened.”
Candy pushed dark hair back from her face, her fingers trembling. “It was a normal night. We partied, drank a bit, and played some pool. A few games of darts. I had a headache. I’d been drinking, so I went back to the campground.”
“By yourself?” Brock asked.
“Yeah.” She nodded quickly. “Everyone else was still here, partying. It was light out, so it didn’t feel like a big deal. It’s only about a mile walk, and it’s awesome being able to see daylight for twenty-four hours.”
Ophelia drew her phone from her back pocket. “How many people are in Alaska with you?”
