Page 27

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

The wind howled outside Morgan’s cabin, rattling the windows in their frames as if demanding entry. February in Alaska brought longer hours of daylight but no relief from winter’s grip.

Tonight’s forecast called for another eight inches of snow before morning.

Morgan added another log to the fire and watched as sparks danced up the flue. The cabin’s main room glowed amber in the firelight.

Her camera equipment lay scattered across the dining table where she’d been editing photos from yesterday.

She wrapped her cardigan tighter and padded to the kitchen in thick wool socks. The kettle whistled just as her phone buzzed with a weather alert.

Winter storm warning extended through tomorrow afternoon.

Morgan smiled despite herself. A snow day meant no need to drive into Fairbanks, no gallery meetings—just uninterrupted hours to work on her personal projects.

As she steeped her tea—a spruce tip blend Logan had introduced her to last summer—Morgan’s gaze drifted to the window above the sink. Something about the darkness beyond the glass made her pause with her cup suspended halfway to her lips.

She leaned forward, squinting against her own reflection on the pane.

She saw nothing outside other than swirling snow and the shadowy outlines of spruce trees bending in the wind.

Still, she reached up and pulled the curtain closed with deliberate care, suddenly aware of her home’s vulnerability in the vast wilderness. The windows, with their warm light spilling out, made her movements visible to anyone standing in the darkness.

Stop it, she chided herself. There’s no one out in this weather.

Nevertheless, she moved through the house and drew each curtain until the cabin felt secure, cocooned against the night.

When she finished, Morgan settled at her table with her tea. She picked up the leather journal she’d been keeping in her bedroom.

The memory of last weekend surfaced as she uncapped her pen.

Logan had stopped by with fresh halibut he’d caught on a rare day off.

She’d invited him to stay for dinner and, to her surprise, he’d accepted.

The evening unfolded in her mind: Logan insisting on cooking, his large hands surprisingly delicate as he prepared the fish; his unexpected knowledge of which wine would pair best; the way his stoic expression had softened when she showed him her latest photographs.

He’d helped with dishes afterward, humming tunelessly—a glimpse of a different Logan than the serious state trooper the world usually saw.

When a pot slipped from his soapy hands, splashing them both, his look of dismay had been so endearing Morgan had laughed until her sides hurt. Later, standing at the door to leave, he’d hesitated just long enough that she’d wondered if he might . . .

If he might kiss her.

Then he’d simply nodded good night.

She couldn’t deny the disappointment she’d felt.

Back in the present, Morgan frowned.

Then she sipped her tea and opened her journal, pen hovering over the blank page as the storm raged outside and something else entirely stirred within.

March 2

If you’re reading this entry, I suppose the habit is sticking.

Dr. Winters would be pleased. He’s always saying consistency is key to any therapeutic practice.

I doubt, however, that he’d approve of how often my mind wanders to a certain Alaska state trooper when I should be “processing my emotions.”

Logan came over last weekend. Brought halibut and insisted on cooking it himself.

There’s something about watching a man who can tackle armed suspects and navigate wilderness rescues concentrate so intensely on not overcooking fish that just .

. . does things to me. He has this little furrow between his eyebrows when he’s focusing—the same one I’ve seen when he’s examining evidence or reading case files.

He dropped a pot while washing dishes and looked so adorably mortified that I couldn’t stop laughing. For just a moment, all that carefully maintained control slipped, and I saw something else there.

Something softer. More vulnerable.

It was like watching ice break up on the river and glimpsing what flows beneath the frozen surface.

I wanted to ask him to stay longer.

I didn’t.

There’s still this wall between us that neither of us seems able to breach. Sometimes I catch him looking at me with such intensity that I think he’s about to say something important.

But then the moment is gone, shuttered away behind that professional mask.

What is he hiding? What am I not seeing?

Maybe I should tell him the truth. Tell him the things that haunt me. Because he’s not the only one with secrets. I hate what I’ve done. I live with that regret every day.

It would be easier if I could stop thinking about him. Focus on my work. The Denali series is finally coming together. My agent says these photos are my strongest work yet, especially the winter dawn shot with the fractured ice. Something about brokenness made beautiful.

But I keep getting distracted. Not just by thoughts of Logan, but by this persistent feeling of being watched.

Two nights ago, I woke at three a.m. convinced someone was outside my cabin.

I lay there for nearly an hour, listening to every creak and groan of the cabin before finally getting up to check.

Nothing was there—just moonlight on snow and my own reflection in the window staring back at me, wild-eyed with fear.

And yet . . .

Yesterday at the river, I found boot prints in the mud near where I’d set up my tripod. Large prints that clearly weren’t mine.

It could have been anyone—fishermen, hikers, tourists even. But the footprints somehow felt deliberate. Almost like a message: I know where you are.

I’ve started checking the locks twice before bed. I even considered getting a dog.

I thought about mentioning my concerns to Logan, but what would I say? “I think someone’s watching me, but I have no proof beyond boot prints in public areas and the occasional feeling of eyes on me?”

He already thinks I take too many risks going out alone to remote locations for shoots. If he thought someone was following me, he’d insist on accompanying me everywhere or, worse, assign some junior trooper to babysit me. My work requires solitude, space to see without distraction.

So I’ll keep this to myself for now. Maybe I’m just working too hard, sleeping too little. Maybe the isolation of winter is finally getting to me after six years in Alaska.

Or maybe someone really is out there, watching and waiting. Someone who sees me but doesn’t want to be seen.

If you’re reading this, future me, I hope you’re looking back on these entries and laughing at your own paranoia.

If you’re reading this, and you’re someone else . . . well, I guess that means something happened to me after all.

Sleep tight,

—Morgan

P.S. Remember to call the gallery tomorrow about changing the lighting for the north wall display. And maybe call Logan too, just to hear his voice.