I’ve been staring at his image for years now. Trying to get into his mind, to figure out what went wrong.
My mother’s words echo through my head again, remorseful and blunt.Even if you find him. Even if you get him to tell you everything, it won’t bring Phoenix back.
Maybe not. But I still need to understand what he went through. What his final moments looked like.
Did he know he was dying? Was he alone when it happened? Did anyone hear his last words?
My throat works, a dangerous sting behind my eyes.
This never happens to me. No matter what I witness or document. But no story has ever felt this close.
I’ve spent two years grieving my brother. I’m suddenly terrified I never really knew him at all.
“Wherever you are,” I say, voice steady, “you don’t get to stay hidden.”
I return the photo carefully, a new rawness at the edges of my flesh. Outside, I scrutinize the treeline, shrouded in shadow. He could be anywhere. Close enough to hear me.
I cup my hands around my mouth, “Hello? Is anybody out there?” My voice ricochets off countless hard edges, a fading loop. “Sergeant Rhys Ward,” I try again.
I head to my Jeep to start unpacking supplies before the thunderstorm settles in.
Could rain for minutes or hours.
Who knows?
Like this interview.
He could appear in a moment and start talking, quick and easy. Some informants are like that, ready to unburden their souls. Or he could drag it out, make it unending for both of us.
Because something tells me the only person more stubborn than me isn’t just out of reach. He feels less like a man and more like a locked door no one’s managed to force open.
And the quiet here isn’t empty. It’s held. Like the mountain itself is deciding how long it’s willing to tolerate me.
Chapter
Three
RHYS
Something’s following me.
I feel it before I smell it. Before I hear it.
Up in the pre-dawn dark, rifle slung over my shoulder, I check traps down past the little orchard of apples I discovered two years back. Pioneer planting, no doubt. To the right, a new crop of winter wheat felts the pasture green.
Deer graze there—good for the bow. Trapping and guiding hunts pay the rest.
The forest in the dark is a thing unto itself. Time shifts out here after hours. So do landmarks.
And the calm crispness of early morning before songbirds sing is like nothing else. Intimate, restful, as if the whole damn world sleeps.
For a second, it almost feels like peace. But the dreams never fade for long.
They wake me in a cold sweat—eyes searching, hands gripping—mind replaying battles no one could’ve won. Ones I sure as hell refused to lose anyway.
Which came at a cost. One that still presses its sharp edges into my soul.
The pink-tipped edges of dawn tease the sky as I return from my last traps set on the line. That’s when I notice them.
