The daily cold plunge in my river pool was my morning burst of dopamine, and the easiest way to clean off out here in the woods. While it stung, it reminded me that I was alive.
A tiny, tickling suction grazed the back of my hand. A small fish was nibbling at my skin. I focused on the fry, letting my thoughts wander away from the carnal need to stand from the freezing water and find warmth.
Tallulah, the black bear, had already come for her breakfast. She caught at least one fish before ambling back into the woods. I’d found her den a few summers ago, so I knew roughly where it was: just over the river, through a copse of trees and across a field near the ridge. I gave that area a wide berth in the spring and summer to give her some privacy, but she’d never once shown aggression toward me.
Closing my eyes, I kept counting the seconds, concentrating on the roar of the water nearby as it crashed over the rocks outside my little pool. The river was particularly fierce today, its banks swollen with snowmelt. My pool felt deeper than usual.
When I opened my eyes and looked down, my hands were ghostly white in the clear water, and I could no longer feel the little fry nibbling at my skin—everything was numb. In just another minute, this torture would be over.
There was a distinct chatter of a pine marten, and I looked toward the cackling noise. He was perched on a log that had jammed against a few rocks in the river, gnawing on a bird carcass. He ate with his mouth open, like a messy toddler, and I was grateful I couldn’t hear the crunching sounds over the rushing water.
The ferret-like creature was cute, but also an unforgiving predator, similar to cats. I appreciated their help in controlling the rodents, despite their nuisance of burrowing under the cabin in winter, causing noise and chaos. Still, I couldn’t blame them; it was warm there. We all had to do our best to survive.
Glancing at my watch, the last minute was ticking down. I breathed in and out with each dwindling second. When the alarm went off, I stood abruptly from the water. Icy rivulets ran over my frozen chest. The air was a warm hug in comparison. I shuffled across the smooth river rocks, careful with my footing since my feet were numb.
On another fallen log, I snatched up my beach towel. Some beach this was. I draped it over my shoulders, barely registering the stiff scratch of the fabric against my cold skin. My feet, bare and squelching in the frosty mud, trudged up the dirt path to the cabin. The next time I went to town, I needed to buy some water shoes.
I sat on my porch and dunked my feet in a bucket of river water I’d brought up earlier, cleaning off the mud before going inside. The water grew murky, sand swirling to the bottom until my feet were clean. Rubbing them vigorously with a towel to activate my circulation, I felt the warmth return. I poured the bucket over the rail so it wouldn’t freeze, and then entered the cabin.
The change in temperature was stark inside the cozy space; the fire in the wood stove roaring like a small tornado. I’d added some fresh logs before going for my swim, and they were crackling with rage.
Dabbing the towel across my body one last time, I peeled off my wet boxers and hung them by the fire to dry. I’d learned not to plunge into the river without boxers. The fish got a little too curious about the happenings below my waistline—not a favorable experience.
The tips of my hair dripped water, forming ringlets, and I pushed the loose strands back from my face. It was mid-length, the easiest way to keep it while I was out here, miles from anyone brandishing scissors. With my Italian heritage and powerful jaw, longer hair worked for me. Lumberjack chic.
I pulled on dry boxer shorts, sweats, and a long thermal shirt. Pushing up the sleeves, I strode to the kitchen and mixed oats, water, honey, and powdered milk in a pot. What I really craved was eggs, but it had been ages since I’d gathered the energy to take the snowmobile into town. I hadn’t seen an egg in weeks.
There was a time when I considered getting chickens, but my future was uncertain, so I hesitated to commit. Besides, the wolves in this area were unstoppable, even at the best of times. And the pine martens—they were little egg thieves, even with the store-bought eggs in storage. They always seemed to go missing. Ultimately, chickens weren’t worth the effort.
My satellite phone gave a single beep, soon followed by another. An incoming call. I wiped the stray honey from my hands before picking it up. Ethan’s number showed on the small screen for the second time this week. I dreaded answering.
“Hey, Ethan. What’s up?” I answered, holding the phone to my cheek with my shoulder, praying this news didn’t include death. I placed the pot on the fireplace stovetop to cook the oats, stirring with a bent spoon that had seen better days.
“Hey, I’ll cut right to the point.”
“I expect nothing less,” I said.
“We might have a problem.”
I braced myself.“Another one? What kind of problem this time?” I stirred the oats in slow figure eights, the sound of the spoon dragging against the bottom of the cast-iron pot giving off an ominous sound.
“Well, it may concern Betty. Her name came up in some text messages from Matteo. It looks like she’s become a person of interest to him.”
I froze.
“What? How!?” I barked before regrouping and trying again, calmer this time.“How did they find out about her? I covered all her tracks when she took Matteo’s painting. I was certain of it.” My rib cage was clamping down on my lungs.
What did I overlook?
“I suspect they’re connecting some dots,” he said.“You know how they operate. They chase every lead. My guess is they’ve been scrutinizing the PERL heist last fall. You weren’t exactly subtle with that one. We all knew it was you, and likely he does too. Nice mustache, though.” He paused and coughed.
I was rendered speechless.
I heard a cabinet door shut on his end. Water ran, and he drank before continuing,“Matteo’s on a mission, you know that. But this week, especially. First it was your uncle and his family, then he assaulted a bunch of my agents yesterday. I have one dead and at least two in the hospital, and now this interest in Betty? The surviving agents were questioned about what prompted the attack. They said he was demanding to know where you’re hiding. Matteo was yelling your name and acting erratically. I don’t know if he’s lost his mind, or what, but he’s looking for someone to blame for his dwindling reputation, and I believe that someone is you.”
“Fuck,”I bit out, dropping the spoon in the pot. I began to pace.
“Yeah, Gray. It’s fucked. And Betty’s dad and brother, too. He seems interested in the entire Beaumont family. We’re monitoring it, though. If anyone gets close to any of them, we’ll put a team in place to ensure their safety, and I’ll bring the FBI in on it, too.”
