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12

AUbrEY

T he water drips from my hair, tracing cold rivulets down my back despite the morning sun warming my face. Jensen walks a few paces ahead, his shirt still damp in patches where he hadn’t bothered to dry off properly. We haven’t spoken since getting dressed and leaving the watering hole, since I’d seen something like regret cloud his eyes.

I hope it wasn’t regret. I know he said last night that there was no us, but I still don’t want things to get weird and awkward. I want our physical encounters to remain separate, a way for the two of us to blow off steam. And then some.

“Might as well explore some of the trails before we head back,” he finally says.

I hitch my pack higher on my shoulder, willing my body to forget the feel of his body against mine. “I know.”

I turn my attention to our surroundings. The forest is alive, dappled sunlight filtering through the pine canopy, birdsong floating on the gentle breeze. It’s hard to believe we’re searching for my sister’s remains in this peaceful place. Hard to believe anything bad could happen here at all.

But I know better.

Jensen stops abruptly, head tilting as he studies the ground. I nearly run into his back, catching myself at the last moment. He crouches, fingers hovering over something I can’t see.

“What is it?”

“Trail’s been disturbed.” His voice is different now; focused, clinical. The tracker, not the man whose dick had been down my throat twenty minutes ago.

I kneel beside him trying to see what he’s looking at, our shoulders almost touching. “Animal?”

“No.” He points to what looks like perfectly ordinary dirt to me. “See how the pine needles are arranged? Too deliberate. Someone tried to cover their tracks here.”

“Recently?”

His eyes scan the forest floor, following something invisible to me. “Hard to say. But it’s heading away from the main trail. Toward those rock formations.”

I look in the direction he’s indicating, a small ridge of granite jutting from the hillside, maybe half a mile away.

“Probably nothing,” he says, but he’s already moving toward it, his stride purposeful. “Still worth checking out.”

I follow, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders move beneath his shirt, trying to focus on why we’re here. On Lainey. Not on how Jensen McGraw tastes like pine and river water and something wild I can’t name.

“You’re thinking it could be connected to Lainey?” I ask, falling into step beside him.

“Nah,” he says. “But we camped here last night, so it’s worth looking to see if anything or anyone else was…around.”

He’s careful not to give me false hope, I’ve noticed. Never promises anything he can’t deliver. It should make me trust him more, this careful honesty. Instead, it makes me wonder what else he’s being careful about.

The path Jensen follows is barely visible, more intuition than trail. I’m not sure how he sees what he does, but there’s no denying his focus, the way his eyes catch on details I would walk right past.

“There,” he says after a few minutes of silent tracking. “Sky pilots.”

My heart skips, then races at the sight. A cluster of blue-purple flowers sway in the breeze, nestled against the granite outcropping we’ve been heading toward. They’re delicate but sturdy, the kind of wildflower that survives in harsh alpine environments where little else grows.

“Lainey loved those,” I whisper, pressing my hands to my chest, as if to keep my heart inside, sadness sweeping through me.

Jensen turns to me, brow furrowed. “Did she now?”

“Since we were kids. Our dad took us camping once near Mt. Shasta, and there were fields of them. She called them her ‘mountain friends.’” The memory catches in my throat. “She even tried to grow them at home, but they never took.”

He studies the flowers, then me, something unreadable in his expression. “Sky pilots only grow above ten thousand feet naturally. We’re not high enough. These shouldn’t be here.”

“What are you saying?”

“Someone must have planted them. Recently. They’re not established enough to have self-seeded.”

I step closer to the delicate blue blooms, my fingers trembling slightly as I reach out to touch one. “Do you think…” I begin, my hope palpable. “Lainey could have planted them three years ago?”

“Dunno,” he says. “Could be anyone.”

The implication hangs between us, unspoken. If not Lainey, then who? And why her favorite flower, here, now?

Jensen glances up at the rock formation. “Let’s check around these boulders. Seems like a place someone could hunker down.”

I follow him as he circles the granite outcropping. On the far side, sheltered from view of the main trail, the rocks form a natural alcove. Protected from the wind, it would make a decent camping spot.

“Someone’s been here,” Jensen says, pointing to a small, carefully arranged fire ring. “Multiple times.”

He moves with practiced efficiency, examining every inch of the site. I watch his hands—the same hands that had traced paths of fire across my skin now gently brushing away pine needles, turning over charred rocks, reading stories I can’t see.

“Jensen,” I call, spotting something wedged in a crack between two boulders. “There’s something here.”

He’s at my side in an instant, his proximity sending a flush of warmth through me despite the gravity of the moment. Carefully, he works the object free.

A woven leather bracelet, the kind made at summer camps and craft fairs. Simple brown cords with a single charm, a small metal disk stamped with a mountain peak.

My breath catches. “That’s…that’s Lainey’s.”

Jensen hands it to me without comment, watching as I turn it over in my palm. The leather is weathered but intact, protected from the elements by its hiding place.

But now that I’m holding it, I can’t be too sure.

“It looks just like the one I gave her for her sixteenth birthday,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I got it because she loved the mountains so much. She used to wear it all the time…until she didn’t. I assumed she lost it.”

Except I was pretty sure the metal had been gold, not silver, and that the mountain had two peaks, not one.

Jensen’s eyes meet mine, and I see something there—concern, maybe compassion. “Aubrey…”

“Maybe she was here.” My voice is stronger now, conviction building. “Doesn’t it seem like too much of a coincidence? This was her special place, Jensen. She picked this spot. She planted those flowers.”

He doesn’t argue, but I can sense his reservation. I know what he’s thinking. I’m seeing only what I want to see.

He’s probably right.

“The question is, why hide the bracelet like that?”

I run my thumb over the mountain charm. “Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it broke off and fell. Or…”

“Or someone else put it there,” Jensen finishes for me.

The thought sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine despite the warm day. I scan the small clearing, trying to see it as Lainey might have—a private sanctuary in the wilderness, a place to connect with her obsession. A place where no one might hear her scream.

Did Adam do this?

Did Adam kill her and try to hide the evidence?

Suddenly I’m looking at this place differently.

Like a crime scene.

Jensen moves toward the back of the alcove, where shadow meets stone. “There’s something else here.”

I join him, tucking possibly Lainey’s bracelet safely in my pocket. In the dimness against the stone wall, I can just make out markings, shapes scratched into the rock face. The markings resolve into crude drawings and what looks like tallies. Some are weathered, clearly older than others. Some appear fresher, the scratches lighter in color where they’ve exposed the rock beneath the surface patina.

“Maybe Donner Party records,” Jensen says quietly. “Some of these markings match known historical sites where they kept count of days. But these others…” He traces newer marks with his finger, not touching the stone. “These are recent. Within the last five years, I’d guess.”

The tallies are grouped in sets, some with slashes through them, others untouched. Below them are strange symbols I don’t recognize, geometric patterns that seem to repeat.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

Jensen’s jaw tightens. “Hard to say. Could be someone’s research project. Historical reenactment. Or…”

“Or?”

He hesitates. “The Donner Party wasn’t just about survival. There were rumors…legends, really, about what happened to them. About what some of them became.”

“You mean beyond the cannibalism?” I’ve heard all the standard historical accounts through Lainey.

“The local tribes had stories. About how consuming human flesh was taboo. About how it changes a person. Not just spiritually or mentally, but physically.” His voice drops lower, almost reverent. “They said the mountains have a power…that they preserve what should be lost, transform what should remain unchanged.”

A breeze kicks up, raising goosebumps on my arms. Suddenly the alcove feels too small and dark, like a trap.

“They say there was a baby,” Jensen continues. “Josephine McAlister. Her mother, Amelia McAlister was listed as one of the deceased, but she was pregnant at the time. There was no record of the birth, according to eyewitness accounts, though that was hard to judge because the McAlisters moved away from the other families, building their cabin maybe a mile away, growing suspicious of others and God-fearing. Maybe because of the cannibalism, maybe because of in-fighting. Hard to say. But there were rumors that the baby survived. Rescuers from the valley found an infant, though the girl who gave it to them seemed too young to have carried it and wouldn’t tell them whose baby she was, only that it was Josephine, though people figured it out soon after. Before they could help her, she ran off into the woods, never to be seen again.”

While Jensen is talking, I’m suddenly brought back to my dream.

The baby against Lainey’s chest.

The ones with the same blue eyes as the horse.

“They couldn’t prove that Josephine was Amelia McAlister’s,” he goes on, “though it did seem like the girl who gave it to them could have been Nora, her niece. Either way, legend has it that the baby never grew up quite right. Was traumatized by things no baby should have remembered.”

I blink at him. “What does this baby have to do with anything?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing except it’s history that was buried, history that most buffs don’t even know of. But there are records if you dig deep enough. All legends have roots in something real, Blondie. Maybe your sister was looking for it.”

I shake my head, trying to understand. “Even if Lainey learned some weird legend about a baby, she never mentioned it to me.”

“I bring it up because there are many terrible stories beyond what we know, and I think your sister was looking for something beyond the official history.” He pauses, rubbing his lips together. “Obsession can break a person. But it can also lead them to the truth.”

I blink at him. One minute he’s as stoic and logical as anything, the next it seems he believes in myths and legends.

“Is that what you know?” I ask. “You’ve heard things passed down through your family? The truth?”

“I’ve heard things that will make you piss yourself,” he says in such a hard voice that it makes my hair stand on end.

“And are you going to share these things?” I ask incredulously.

“If and when the time is right. If you’re ready to hear it.”

Okay, now I’m getting annoyed. I’m about to tell him that he’s full of shit when he turns away, scanning the alcove one more time. “We should head back. The others will be wondering where we are.”

Despite him being so damn aggravating, I’m not ready to leave this place. There is the closet I’ve felt to my sister in years, however strange and precarious as it is. “Shouldn’t we document this? Take pictures?”

“Already done.” He taps the phone in his pocket. “I got everything while you were examining the bracelet.”

Efficient. I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less.

I take one last look at the sky pilots, their delicate purple-blue petals turning toward the sun. Lainey’s flowers. Planted where they don’t belong, thriving against the odds.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” The question escapes before I can stop it. I know how futile and foolish it is. I know the answer, deep down.

Jensen’s handsome face softens, just a fraction. “I think we need to keep following the trail.”

It’s not an answer, but I understand his reluctance to offer false hope. It was just earlier that I thought about finding her remains. Still, something about this place—the bracelet, the flowers, the strange markings—feels purposeful. Like a message left for someone to find.

As we make our way back to camp, I’m both lost in my thoughts and acutely aware of Jensen beside me, how he moves with quiet confidence through the forest, how his eyes continually scan our surroundings. The intimacy from earlier has been replaced by professional focus, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

“So what else do you know about this baby?” I ask as the main trail comes into view. “About the legend of Josephine McAlister. Or does this fall under the things that would make me piss my pants and I can’t know what they are until I’m ready for them?”

Jensen slows his pace, considering me. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. If Lainey was researching this, I need to understand what she was looking for.”

He’s quiet for a moment, weighing his words. “The official history says Josephine was an infant born during the ordeal. She survived and was adopted afterward.”

“But?”

“But local stories say she was born the night her mother transformed. That something got into Josephine’s blood. The hunger, they called it. Human but…with a twist.”

“Her mother transformed? Transformed into what?” I press, though part of me doesn’t want the answer.

“Into something that hungered for human flesh. Something that passed that hunger down through generations.”

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the morning sun, his words stoking so many nightmares stored somewhere in my brain. “Like…zombies?” I ask warily.

Jensen’s mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “That’s the modern word for it. The natives had different names. The settlers just called them the afflicted .”

“And you believe this?” Dreams or not, I can’t keep the skepticism from my voice.

“I believe these mountains have secrets.” His eyes meet mine, serious now. “I believe your sister was looking for answers about her own history, maybe her own…familial connections to this place.”

“That’s impossible.” I scoff. “We don’t have any literal connection to the Donner Party.” But even as I say it, I think of Lainey’s obsession, how it seemed to go beyond academic interest, how she always said the mountains called to her.

And I think about our mother.

“Are you certain?” Jensen asks quietly. “How far back have you traced your family history?”

“Our mother died when we were kids. Our father never talked about extended family much. Just that…” I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat.

“That what?”

“My mother…she had mental issues. Schizophrenia, they said. She was heavily medicated as far as I can remember,” I tell him. “She often spoke of trauma. Generational trauma that had been passed down to her. But it never made any sense, my grandparents were kind and loving and they had a good relationship. I had a good one with them too, before they passed on when I was a teen.”

“How did your mother die?” he asks gently.

“Suicide,” I say. “Overdosed on pills. She left a note. It said she was sorry but it was the only way she could be free.”

Jensen is studying me closely now, his brows knitting together in sympathy, like he thinks I’m about to cry. “I’m sorry.”

I try to shrug it off. Just like I’ve found ways to talk about Lainey without feeling too much, I’ve been able to do the same with my mother. “It’s fine.”

Silence fills the air as we walk.

“Sometimes the blood remembers what the mind forgets,” Jensen says, so quietly I almost miss it.

We’ve reached the edge of our camp now. Cole is stoking the morning fire, Eli is checking supplies. Red is lounging against a tree, cleaning his knife. Hank is nowhere to be seen, probably on perimeter check, or off to take a leak.

Before I can press Jensen further, Eli spots us and waves. “Took you a while. Was about to send a search party.”

“Yeah I can see that,” Jensen comments wryly. “You’re really raring to go.”

Eli grins. It’s the sort of look that says he didn’t want to intrude.

I groan internally. With Red making jokes about Jensen keeping me warm, I have to wonder if they knew what Jensen and I were doing by the river. God, I hope not. I’ll never live it down.

“How about we get some more coffee going and some eggs before we hit the trail,” Jensen says, smoothly shifting back into his role as leader. But his hand brushes mine, just once, as we step into the clearing. A touch so brief I might have imagined it if not for the lingering warmth on my skin.

I slip my hand into my pocket, fingers closing around the bracelet. Whatever secrets these mountains hold—whatever Jensen isn’t telling me—I feel I’m one step closer to finding my sister.

And maybe, just maybe, to understanding why she came here in the first place.