Page 22 of Her Mountain Man Protector

"Talk," I say, stepping onto the deck and pulling the door until it almost latches. Oakley's head lifts. I hold up a finger. She holds up a muffin. Truce, for now.

"Eli Cade," Marin says, no hello, velvet and brutal in the same breath. "That's the name on a landing timesheet down by the old boat sheds. Nineteen. Paid cash under the table three nights a week. No tax file worth the ink. Motorcycle registered to a cousin in Halo City who doesn't appear to own a motorcycle."

"Rowe's Eli."

"Rowe's Eli. He also badges into the sheds on nights the landing log shows no scheduled freight. Alden isn’t going to like that sentence. I'm saving it for him after I finish being the messenger."

I watch the drop off the deck, water white and constant below the trees. "And the dock name from her photos."

"Stencil on the crate was Northline Bonded. Shell out of Delaware. Two directors, both dead on paper, both still signing for warehouse space in three states. One of those spaces burned last year in a fire. Northline invoiced Vanguard Helix for 'cold storage consultation' six weeks before your father went quiet. The photos she kept aren't fog, Colt. They're a receipt."

The deck rail bites my palm. "Send it to Banks. Loop Nash."

"Already did. Nash is going to call you in about four minutes."

"What do we do about Eli?"

"Don't spook the niece until Alden has a conversation. The boy could be dumb. Dumb still works nights at a landing that doesn't keep hours. I'll keep pulling."

She hangs up. I stand there with the phone dead in my hand and the falls talking below the trees. Oakley is at the glass when I turn. Of course she is. That camera mind of hers never clocks out.

"You're making the face," she says through the door.

I come inside. "Which face?"

"The one where somebody handed you a file and you want to put a hole in it. Sit. Eat another muffin. Then use words."

I sit because arguing with her about muffins is a losing campaign I already surrendered. "Marin ran the names. Eli Cade. Nineteen. Cash work at the landing. Badge swipes on nights there's no freight. Motorcycle that belongs to a cousin who doesn't own a motorcycle."

Her pretty mouth goes tight. "Rowe likes him."

"Rowe is sixteen. Liking him isn't a security clearance."

"Don't you dare turn that girl into a briefing. She's the first person in this county who talked to me without making the camera the whole point."

"I'm not turning her into a briefing. I'm turning him into one. There's a difference."

She holds my stare with commendable bravado, emerald eyes bright and furious, and I should look away. I don't. The lilt of her voice when she's defending somebody punches lower than it should.

"And the dock?" she asks.

"Northline Bonded. That's the stencil. Helix paid them before my father disappeared. Your photos are the paper trail we didn't have. You kept the right files, Vega."

"Oakley."

"Oakley." It comes out rougher than I mean. "You kept the right files."

Pink creeps across her cheeks. She looks at the table. I look at the door. The room feels smaller than it did when the muffins were in the oven.

The second burner goes before either of us finds a safer sentence. Nash. I put him on speaker because she's earned the trust and because hiding a brother from her at this point is a waste of breath.

"Tell me you're not in that cabin," Nash says.

"Safe house. Far side of the falls. Equinox."

"Good. Because I just got a ping from a trail cam Crewe seeded above the lower pool. Six this morning. Tall. Gray in the beard. Same coat as the last blurry frame Jace swore was Dad and I swore was wishful thinking. He's on our mountain, Colt. Near the falls. He knows the paths."

Oakley's hand finds the back of a chair. She doesn't speak. She doesn't have to. The whole stubborn house is listening.