Chapter 7

  Jeremy brought the chopper down onto a Department of Natural Resources landing pad. After unloading their packs and supplies, they began their trek, the damp, chilly air filling their lungs and clinging to their skin. The trees were shrouded in mist as they hiked through towering Douglas firs and western red cedars. Jeremy led, pointing out bobcat tracks in the mud and fungus clinging to fallen logs.

  Lost in thought, Neil lagged behind. Two hours later, they arrived at the cabin.

  “No microwave, dude. Just old-school fire vibes.” Jeremy dropped his pack on a cot and shot Neil a look. “And before you think I forgot … Thanksgiving, right?”

  He dug into the pack and produced two brown MRE pouches with a triumphant flourish. “Behold. Turkey dinner. Field-grade fine dining.”

  He set them on the table, then pulled out a tiny bottle of Tabasco like it was contraband treasure. “And the good stuff. Because we’re not animals.”

  His grin widened. “Figured tradition still counts. Even out here.”

  Neil stared at the packets. “You’re kidding.” He shook his head and almost smiled. “Christ,” he murmured. “Thanksgiving MREs.”

  Jeremy shrugged, a crooked smile forming. “Tradition, man. You don’t bail on Thanksgiving just because life goes sideways.” He nodded toward a short stack of firewood. “There’s a little wood to get you started. Coffee pot’s up there on the shelf, and there’s two mugs, bowls, and silverware. Cast-iron pot’s hanging right there.”

  He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Hand pump outside for water. We’ll start with coffee.

  Neil’s expression changed, as though a lingering scent of smoke and soil from a forgotten memory had resurfaced.

  “C’mon, dude,” said Jeremy, “I know you can handle being away from the city.”

  “I grew up in a mining region in Idaho. My brother and I camped. I worked hard to get out of there.”

  “I remember you telling me that before, but, dude, Washington State is a whole different world.”

  Neil tossed his backpack on the other cot.

  “There’s a couple of sleeping bags stowed in the trunk over there in the corner.” Jeremy pointed. “And rinse off those dishes. They’ve been sitting here a while, and who knows what kind of critters are running around. It’s rough, but trust me. Ugly plate, killer grub.”

  Neil made coffee, the bitter aroma filling the one room.

  “Is there any milk?” Neil asked after pouring Jeremy a cup.

  Jeremy grinned. “Whoa, man. Neil Ames up on a mountain with no milk for his brew? That’s, like, tempting fate, dude. Scope the tin outside. I rigged it to the steps. Keeps the critters out and your stash nice and frosty.”

  Neil went out on the porch, found a small carton of milk, and watched the milk swirl as he poured. Steam rose from the cup, mingling with the fog of his own breath. The movement was mesmerizing. He stood with the milk carton in one hand and gazed into the cup of coffee as if it were a crystal ball.

  He sat on the damp rough-hewn step and placed the steaming cup before him. He gazed into it until his eyes closed. He inhaled deeply three times, the crisp mountain air filling his lungs, the scent of pine and cedar sharp in his nostrils, a profound silence surrounding him.

  “Don’t get too comfortable out here,” said Jeremy as he stretched and breathed in the fresh air. “I’ve got some wood over there in that makeshift shed next to the outhouse. Needs to be chopped and brought in.” He grabbed an axe by the door and headed toward the chopping block. Neil finished his coffee, and they went to work until late in the afternoon when the forest went dark.

  They washed outside at the hand water pump; hungry enough to make the thought of MREs palpable.

  The cabin settled around them. Neil heated up the coffee. Jeremy pulled down the plates and silverware, placed the camp light on the center of the table, and opened the MREs.

  Neil cleared his throat and cracked a heater pouch. Steam rose, sharp and chemical.

  “Smells like a crime scene,” he said.

  Jeremy grinned. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  Neil didn’t argue. For the first time in a long time, the day meant something. Even if it tasted like cardboard and guilt.

  After the meal, Neil reached for his phone and realized that he didn’t have it. He gave Jeremy the stink eye, which Jeremy didn’t notice; he was sitting next to the fireplace, humming and writing in his journal.

  He had started a hearty stew with chunks of chicken he had bought earlier in the day and the wild greens he’d foraged on the trail, and it was simmering in a cast iron pot hung in the fireplace. Before bed, Jeremy tasted the broth and stirred the pot.

  “Hmmm. By the time we get up, stew should be ready.” He shut down the camp lamp. “Good night, bro.”

  The next morning, Jeremy went outside, stretched his arms toward the sky, and gazed at the clearing. The drizzle had stopped, and an occasional sunbeam peeked through the trees. He burst through the door, leaving it wide-open, and grabbed the two rifle cases, throwing one carelessly to Neil. Placing the case on his cot, he opened it, revealing a blunted stage sword. “All right, time to work off that stew. You ready?”

  Neil raised an eyebrow.

  “Swordplay, man. Can’t have you rusting up like the Tin Man.”

  Neil’s smirk returned, faint but genuine. He opened his case. “Lead the way.”

  Outside, they set up in the clearing. Practice swords in hand, two blunted rapiers like the ones they had used during their college days, they circled each other.

  Their conversation unfolded in rhythm with the dance of steel. Jeremy lunged first, quick and aggressive. Neil parried and countered, testing his opponent’s balance.

  “So,” Jeremy began between strikes, “you gonna tell me what the hell drove you into that whisky cave?”

  Neil sidestepped a feint, countering with a riposte.

  Jeremy grinned. “Dodging me already.”

  They pressed on, movements sharpening. Neil baited Jeremy, drawing him in before spinning to deflect a blow.

  Jeremy grunted. “You’re still good.”

  Neil flicked his wrist. “You’re slower.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “Just lulling you into overconfidence.”

  Steel clanged, echoing through the trees. Between feints and parries, their banter deepened. Jeremy’s grin softened as he parried.

  “I can’t wait to hit the waves in Hawaii, man. Hard to stick around, y’know … Athena …” Jeremy let his guard down.

  Neil froze mid-swing, blade tip hovering an inch from Jeremy’s collarbone.

  Jeremy’s stance stayed loose, but his gaze locked in.

  “Been into her a long time. She’s still waiting. For him.”

  Neil lowered his weapon and remained silent.

  Jeremy rolled his shoulder, his blade lazily tracing a circle in the air. “Seven years, bro.” Despite the light tone, his words conveyed profound feeling.

  Neil paced a tight circle around him, eyes narrowing. “You heard about the body in Singapore? Could be him.”

  Jeremy half shrugged, stepping to the side, keeping distance but not disengaging.

  “Yeah, but … what if it’s not, dude?”

  Neil stopped cold, dropping the tip of his sword to the ground.

  “Been thinking the same thing.”

  Jeremy reset their blades with a nod, and the fight resumed.

  Early the next day, they sparred again, more intense this time. Sweat poured from both of them, breaths sharp and ragged. Jeremy pressed harder, forcing Neil to give ground.

  “You’re hiding something,” Jeremy said mid-feint.

  Neil parried, stepping wide. “Drop it.”

  Jeremy lunged, eyes sharp. “Nah, man. This is how we do it.”

  Neil’s blade locked against Jeremy’s. Sparks of frustration flickered in his eyes. “I think John Wallace was murdered.”

  Jeremy parried, then froze mid-guard. “John Wallace, the detective who botched Emily’s case?”

  Neil nodded, circling, breath ragged. “He left me a note.”

  Jeremy’s sword dipped. “What kind of note?”

  Neil slashed low, forcing Jeremy back. “Said, ‘You are in grave danger. I’ve already dug mine. Emily is not in hers. I hope I don’t see you soon.’”

  Jeremy blocked, eyes wide. “Wallace botches the case, then drops that bombshell? What makes you think he was murdered?”

  Neil advanced again, sharp and fast. “Wallace knew something. A secret.”

  Their blades locked near Jeremy’s face.

  “There’s more,” Neil said, driving Jeremy into a retreat. “A detective’s been sniffing around. Asking about the day Emily was killed. Wanted to know where I was.”

  Jeremy sidestepped a thrust, blade ringing. “You serious?”

  Neil gave a grim nod, pressing the attack. “Dead serious.” With a sudden burst of fury, Neil lunged hard, knocking Jeremy’s blade high and wide.

  Jeremy countered and blocked, then locked blades with Neil, forcing him to meet his gaze. “So, you’re in their crosshairs now.”

  Neil shoved him back, blade flicking up. “They’re reopening the case.”

  Jeremy circled, blade held low. “Is that because they think Wallace was murdered?”

  Neil lunged, forcing Jeremy to parry. “They think he killed himself.” He grunted, pivoted, and swung hard, steel meeting steel. “And she knew more,” Neil snarled, spittle hitting Jeremy’s face.

  Jeremy stumbled back into a defensive crouch. Neil closed the gap, battering Jeremy’s guard with a flurry of strikes, steel clashing fast and brutal.

  Jeremy disengaged and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Who? Who knew more?”

  “Katherine Sterling.” Neil gasped. “She started a book based on Emily’s murder.” Neil advanced, relentless. “Read it the night I hit the bottle.” He feinted high, then cut low, forcing Jeremy to retreat. “Reads like a rom-com gone wrong.”

  Jeremy parried, raising a brow. “Rom-com?”

  Neil pressed in, driving him back with tight, aggressive strikes. “Cute meeting, awkward flirting.” A mocking tone and sharp thrust punctuated his words. “Then murder.”

  With each strike and slash, he revealed the contents of Katherine’s chapter.

  Jeremy deflected a sharp thrust, stepping wide; his foot slid in the dirt as he blocked the next blow. “So, this was a retelling of Emily’s murder?”

  Neil circled, sword steady. “Identical.” He lunged, steel locking with Jeremy’s. “Our apartment, every detail. The window. The bookcase. The tea kettle.”

  Neil lunged, driving Jeremy farther into the clearing. “Katherine was the one who found Emily’s body. She’s the one who reported it to the police.” With a shove, he knocked Jeremy’s sword aside, throwing him off-balance.

  Jeremy recovered, circling. “So, Katherine fictionalized Emily’s death. But made it real.”

  Neil’s guard tightened, voice gravelly. “Too real.”

  Jeremy flicked a light strike, casual but testing. “So, why’d Emily let the guy in? Why get all flirty when you were halfway across the world in a war zone?”

  Neil froze mid-thrust, eyes narrowing. “That’s the question.”

  Steel rang as they clashed again, Neil driving harder now.

  Jeremy’s breath remained calm, his voice like still water. “And the victim’s name?”

  Neil advanced fast, blade slicing the air. “Laura Jones.”

  Jeremy’s tone was mellow but probing. “What if Laura Jones wasn’t just a character? What if that’s the real name?”

  Neil slashed downward, sharp, heavy. Jeremy blocked it just in time.

  Jeremy spoke in a low, coaxing voice. “You said Katherine knew something. What if this was it? The hidden piece inside the fiction?”

  Neil blinked hard. “What?”

  Jeremy kicked Neil back, keeping it smooth but deliberate. “Laura Jones. Real. Flesh and blood.”

  Neil’s breath caught. “A second victim?”

  Jeremy sheathed his blade slow and easy. “Or a smoke screen, man. Maybe the guy wasn’t even there for Emily.”

  Neil lowered his sword, stunned. “Jesus.”

  Jeremy gave him a reassuring half grin, voice low and steady. “Hey, bro, what if … what if … you’ve been chasing the wrong angle? What if Emily wasn’t the mark?”

  Neil’s arms sagged, sword loose at his side. The wind whispered in the branches.

  “Maybe she wasn’t the victim,” Neil whispered, hollow.

  “Whoa. You think that’s what Wallace was trying to tell you?”

  Neil’s jaw locked. Rage rose fast, cutting through him. His face went pale, eyes wild.

  Jeremy slowly approached him and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “You ain’t chasing shadows anymore, brother. You’re chasing the truth.”

  Neil exhaled, slow but heavy, staring past Jeremy into the woods.

  “If Emily has done this to me,” he muttered, voice pure flint, “I’ll hunt her down. And if she is alive …” his words were as pointed and blunt as the blade in his hand, words he had never dared consider: “I will finally be free.”

  Chapter 8

  A week later, Neil burst through the door of his apartment and rushed to the bookcase only to discover his phone lifeless. He found a note from Athena on top of the drafting table.

  Neil—

  Welcome home. I could tell you weren’t yourself when you left. Jeremy filled me in about the cabin. Good call. While you were away, I cleaned your place and stocked the fridge. Your laundry was delivered. It' in the closet. There’s a brown bag on the counter, oatmeal-raisin cookies. Made with butter, eggs, and my eternal disapproval.

  Enjoy.

  Marines take care of their own. Don’t forget that.

  Take your time. I’ll be around when you feel like talking.

  —Athena

  He slipped out of his coat and stepped into the bathroom. It sparkled, steeped in eucalyptus and lemon, sharp and clean. He caught a whiff of himself: sweat, stale clothes, regret.

  The mirror didn’t flinch. Days without a shower. Days of intense physical exertion and the occasional dip into a cold stream. He stared at the beard growth, the chapped lips, and the dirty hair plastered to his head.

  With a sharp breath, he peeled off his clothes, letting them fall to the tile like old skin. The shower water scalded at first, but he stood beneath it, arms braced against the wall, letting the water pummel him, feeling the heat seep into his muscles. The grime, the fog in his head, the weight clinging to him since the revelations about Wallace and Emily, he let it bleed down the drain.

  He shaved, dressed, and checked his phone.

  Thirty-nine calls, twenty-one voicemails, and forty-seven text messages. Seven were from clients demanding to know why he hadn’t returned their calls. Four calls, two voice messages, and two text messages were from Daniel Upton.

  The rest were from Octavia Clarke, who was in Japan, recovering from her own trauma: the nightmare of Montreal; the brutal murder of Bastien Beaulieu, the father she hadn’t known she had; and the sickening betrayal of Cadenza Beaulieu, her brilliant, unhinged, merciless sister. A sister who was ravenous with hatred, obsessed with making Octavia suffer. Alongside the ever-cold Mr. Smyth, she had kept Octavia captive, playing a sadistic game; Smyth had extracted what he could from her, while Cadenza had savored the power of deciding exactly when and how she would die.

  Neil decided to deal with Daniel Upton first and was about to call him when his phone pinged.

  OCTAVIA

  If I don’t hear from you today, I’m flying back to you tomorrow.

  NEIL

  No. Stay there. I’m fine.

  OCTAVIA

  Don’t argue with me. I’m coming.

  His thumbs jabbed at the screen.

  NEIL

  No. I don’t need you here. Stay in Tokyo. Get fixed.

  Neil waited. A minute. Five minutes. Fifteen minutes. No response. He listened to the rest of his messages, then deleted them. An hour passed; Octavia still hadn’t replied.

  He went into the kitchen and opened the bag of oatmeal-raisin cookies and inhaled the comforting smell. He was about to pull one out when a scratching noise came from the door.

  He checked his security camera and opened the door. A black miniature pinscher zipped in, whirling around his feet.

  “Sherlock! Sit!” Aidan Sterling walked in with a leash in his hand.

  He hugged Neil and patted his back. Neil tensed. With a thump, Sherlock sat on his hind legs, tail wagging furiously, ready to perform his high five greeting. Neil, still holding the door open, returned the high five.

  “Octavia called and told me to check on you,” said Aidan.

  “You didn’t need to come. I’m fine.”

  “You may not be happy to see me,” said Aidan as he stepped into the room, not taking the hint to leave, “but Sherlock is happy to see you.”

  “I’m not up for company yet.” Neil continued to hold the door open.

  “All right, I’ll go, then.” Aidan reached down to clip on the leash. “Come on, Sherlock.”

  The dog looked at Neil, wagged his tail, ignored Aidan, and began sniffing around the apartment.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s ready to leave.” Aidan grinned.

  Sherlock’s nose led him to the kitchen.

  “Sherlock, come back here,” Aidan called, hurrying after the dog. Neil shut the door with a firm click and trailed him into the kitchen. Sherlock was dancing on his hind legs, eyes fixed on the bag of cookies.

  “He’s a sucker for cookies. Mom used to give him one every time she baked a batch.”

  Neil caught the flash of pain that crossed Aidan’s face.

  He’s still grieving Katherine. Her murder happened three years ago. At least he knows what really happened.

  Neil picked out the raisins and gave the dog a cookie, then offered one to Aidan. “Sorry for being such a—”

  “What’s going on with you?” Aidan interrupted as he took a bite of cookie.