I walked toward the deck, spine straight, my sandals striking the boards in even beats. I didn’t turn until I reached the entrance. The canvas panel dropped behind me with far less finality than a door should have offered.
The suite held the day’s heat, warm air pressing against my skin as I crossed the polished timber floor toward the tied-back opening. Beyond it, the ridge lay in shadow.
Beyond the perimeter, far in the distance, a pair of headlights flared once and then vanished.
Chapter 3
The File
NICK
Thecabinsmelledlikeparaffin and dust and the sharp green bite of crushed wild leaves. The kind of smell that lived in your clothes after a long patrol, no matter how hot the shower ran.
The door shut under my boot. I checked the latch out of habit. Not because anyone was coming. Men who stop checking doors don’t keep this job long.
My kit went down in the same place it always did. Radio on the table. Sidearm on the nightstand. Knife by the sink. Boots off, lined toe to heel. I washed my hands until the water ran clear and the grit stopped coming off my knuckles.
Only then did I let myself exhale.
The reserve had its own rhythm at night. Tree frogs threaded sound through the dark. Stems rasped together in the brush below the ridge, then went still as if whatever had moved through it had stopped to listen. The wind shifted. The lantern flame leaned with it, then steadied. Nothing out there was worried about my fatigue.
The radio sat quiet. That was the gift. Quiet meant the fence held, the guests stayed inside their glass boxes, and the bush did what it had done for centuries without human permission.
I poured water, drank half the glass at the counter, then topped the rest with whiskey. The folder on the table remained untouched—too clean for the cabin. The corners were crisp, the seams free of dust. The paper lacked the usual smudges of sweat or the soft edges of a page carried in a pocket. It belonged in an office.
She belonged in an office.
Juliette Wilder.
I'd read her name before she arrived. Twice, actually. Once when the guest list came through, and again when the lodge manager added her little note in the margin, as if I'd asked.
VIP guest. Wilder Horizons. CEO.
Young for the job.
Former criminal defense attorney.
Explained the eyes.
Made the call before she stepped out of the Land Rover.
You learned to do that. The bush wasn't forgiving of optimism. People were the same. Arrived with assumptions and a quiet belief money made the rules. Most of my work was correcting that belief before it got somebody hurt.
The first time I read the file, I pictured someone who treated places like assets. A property to assess, categorize, and abandon before it could ask anything of her.
A shark on holiday. Silk dress. Teeth underneath.
The folder opened in my hands.
The first page was the kind of bio a publicist wrote. Age. Education. Awards. Headlines. A list of accomplishments that didn't pause for breath.
Under that, a short private note from the retreat team.
She is exhausted. This is not optional. Family insisted.
I stared at that line for longer than the rest.
The executives on tonight’s guest list had all arrived with their own versions of burnout. Most of them wore it like proof of importance. Talked about it over wine like it was a panel topic.
