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“No.”

“A quarter inch to the left, and the leg would be gone. Sixteen inches higher and he’d be dead.” A stern voice now. “Whatever’s going on, just keep that in mind.”

She turned and left.

Dorion rose, leaving Tolifson, and walked outside. She opened the liftgate of her SUV and unlocked a metal suitcase. From it she took a small black semiautomatic that was the same brand and model as Colter’s, a Glock 42. Both of the younger Shaw siblings had coveted California concealed carry permits. Russell, being a government employee, didn’t need one.

She chambered a round, slipped the weapon into a Blackhawk inside-the-belt holster and clipped it against her waist. Into her left pocket went a second magazine.

She’d never thought she might need it on a disaster response job.

But one of her father’s most important rules was in her mind.

Never be unprepared for anything.

43.

Fiona Lavelle was wearing several layers. Smart. This space, an entrance to an old mine, had to be forty degrees. The stocking cap was probably a fashion statement.

She was definitely on the defensive. Her right hand continued to grip the rock, her left the light. He blinked once more and she backed away and aimed the beam elsewhere.

“Who are you?”

“I’m a professional tracker. I look for missing people. Your fiancé wanted me to find you. Though you’re not engaged, are you?”

“No. He just says that. So he’s here.” Her eyes closed briefly in dismay.

“About an hour ago. When you didn’t show up at the spa.”

A grimace. “Where he sent me to lose weight and get in better shape. He came looking for me when I didn’t pick up like I’m supposed to. He lets two calls go by unanswered and I’m in violation.”

And then what? Shaw wondered. He’d worked a number of jobs involving domestic abuse runaways. The abusers were infinitely clever in establishing rules.

And devising, and delivering, punishments.

Shaw told her, “And he’s here because he had an AirTag or tracker in the car.”

“That’s right. He hides them in very clever places. After I got stuck in the mud I went through the trunk and found it. I broke it but it was too late, I guess.”

“He called a gas station on Route Thirteen, south of Hinowah, on the way to Fort Pleasant. The manager looked over the security video and didn’t see your car. So he figured you must’ve had an accident here between the town and the crossroad.”

“Are you a private eye?”

“Sort of. I’m helping with the levee situation. When he was talking to the police, he heard what I did and offered to pay me to find you.”

She gave him a cynical glance. “How much?”

“Five thousand. Then he went up to seven five.”

She gave a laugh. “Didn’t even jump to ten. And he’s worth twenty-five million. At least.” Her eyes grew troubled. “But—”

“I didn’t tell him. Don’t worry. He believes the accident was real and that you survived and you’re lost in the woods somewhere, probably injured. His concern is real. But it’s like a bank robber’s concern is real—for his loot, if it goes missing.”

She gave a cold laugh. “Good way to put it. You didn’t say anything, so you must have suspected. Why?” She realized she was still holding the rock and dropped it.

“A few things. Why wouldn’t you pick up twenty calls? Excessive calling, even before he knew about the collapse. Typical domestic stalking behavior. And earlier, when I was asking him questions, to get a profile of you, he was patronizing.”

“Oh, one of his specialties.”