Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
The insight is uncomfortably accurate. “Easier that way,” I admit. “Hard to let people close when you’re ashamed of who you’ve become. And I didn’t want to drag anyone else into Marcus’s world. It’s safer to keep to myself.” I pause. “Don’t tell me you’re a psychologist as well.”
“I’m no psychologist,” she says. “In the bureau I’m part of the Violent Crime Unit. Missing Persons. We have psychologists working along with us, and you learn to pick up on things, when it comes to the criminals, when it comes to the victims.”
“And, so you’ve been examining me.”
“Can’t help it,” she says, reaching out and brushing her fingers over my forehead. “But even before all this,” she says, gesturing vaguely to encompass our current situation, “you seemed…lonely. Like you were holding yourself apart from everything.”
I consider denying it, but what’s the point? “When my father died, it broke something in me,” I say quietly. “The ranch, Marcus, my mother’s condition—they’re all reasons, but they’re also excuses. Truth is, I was afraid to care too much about anyone again. Afraid to lose them like I lost him.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, more intimate somehow than our physical nakedness. I’ve never said these things aloud before, never acknowledged the fear that’s driven so many of my choices.
“When this is over,” I continue, surprised by my own words, “if we make it out…I want to be different. Better. Be the man my father raised me to be, not the one I’ve let myself become. Cut ties with Marcus, run the ranch clean even if it means losing it. Find a way to take care of my mother that doesn’t cost my soul.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” she says softly, gravity in her voice that tells me she’s not just agreeing with me, but that she believes in me. Believes I can do it.
“What about you?” I ask. “When this is over, you go back to the FBI? Back to chasing criminals? Criminals like me?”
She sighs, her breath warm against my chest. “I don’t know. Before all this, I was on a path. Had my whole career mapped out, knew exactly where I was going. Now…” She trails off, her eyes distant. “Now I’m not sure of anything, except that I need to find out what happened to Lainey. Need to have that closure, no matter how much it hurts me, no matter how much it might kill me.”
“And after?” I press, not sure why her answer matters so much to me.
“After,” she repeats, as if the concept is foreign. “I haven’t let myself think about after. Maybe that’s been the problem all along. I’ve been stuck in the moment Lainey disappeared, unable to move forward. Hell, I might have been stuck since my mother died. I heard once that whenever you experienced your most traumatic event, that’s the age you are forever. Obviously that’s bullshit, but I think there’s a line of truth to it. I think maybe we get hung up at a certain spot in our lives, never able to move past it unless we face it head on.”
The understanding passes between us, unspoken but clear. We’re both trapped by our pasts, both struggling to find a way forward. Both might die on this mountain before we get the chance to try.
“We should check on Eli,” she says after a moment, breaking the spell of intimacy that had wrapped around us. “And figure out our next move.”
She’s right, of course. However tempting it might be to remain in this bubble of warmth and unexpected connection, the world outside the sleeping bag hasn’t changed. The feral people are still out there. Eli is still injured. We’re still in grave danger with no real way out.
Untangling ourselves from the sleeping bag proves an awkward dance of limbs and averted eyes, the vulnerability of our earlier conversation making the physical exposure somehow more significant. We dress quickly in the cabin’s chill, our clothes stiff from where they’ve dried out overnight by the hearth.
I check on Eli while Aubrey rebuilds the fire. His condition remains precarious—fever still high, the wound on his shoulder an angry red around the edges, though the black discoloration hasn’t spread further. The tears themselves are ragged so it’s hard to know if it really was done by Hank’s claw-like fingernails or his teeth sharp teeth. Either way, Eli’s breathing is shallow but regular. He’s hanging on, for now.
With the immediate necessity of tending to Eli addressed, I move to the window, scraping away a patch of frost to peer outside. The storm has passed, leaving behind a world transformed by white, sparkling snow under a blue sky.
“Storm’s passed,” I report, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement, any watching eyes. “Snow’s deep, though. Four feet at least in the drifts.”