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7

ZEKE

T he air bites colder the farther I get from the road. It’s early, not even six, but I couldn’t sit in that studio apartment above the café one second longer. Not with Sadie’s face still in my head. The way she looked at me last night when I leaned in, when she stopped me—not afraid, not unsure. Just not ready.

I respect that. But it doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. Want her. All of her.

So instead of pacing in front of the cottage like a man ready to burn something down, I lace up my boots and head back toward the shack. The one in the woods no one’s supposed to remember.

Snow crunches under my steps, but it’s patchy now—the melt is starting to win in places. Leaves stick to frost and mud. My breath comes out in sharp clouds. I move fast, not because I’m rushed. Because I know exactly where I’m going.

The shack hasn’t changed. Still half-collapsed, still stinking faintly of burnt metal and fuel. But I don’t stop at the threshold like last time. This time, I walk around the back.

If you’re hiding something, you don’t leave it near the fire. You build your burn site where it covers the truth, not where it lives.

I press my hand against the rear wall—rot-soft in one spot, brittle in another. Then I crouch. There, at the base: a panel of rotted siding loose enough to pry up with a blade. I slide my knife from my belt and wedge it beneath the edge. The panel lifts with a groan and reveals what I’d suspected. A stash point.

Inside: two burner phones, both dead but intact. A GPS beacon, tucked into a small metal tin. And a weatherproof field notebook sealed in a ziplock bag. When I open it, I see it immediately: not scribbles. Logs. Tight writing. Encrypted. Not military standard, but close enough that I’d bet money on someone with a background in spec ops or intelligence passed through this shack. Probably used it as a drop.

I take photos of everything, glove the evidence, and slide it all into my pack. Then I circle the shack again. That’s when I find the tire tracks. They weren’t here last time—not clearly. Snow disguised them. But now the earth’s softer, and I can see the full impression of the treads. Deep, staggered pattern. Familiar.

I snap a shot. Then scroll back through the photos I took behind Sadie’s place yesterday. I pull up the boot prints and the tire tracks from the alley and compare them to the ones I snapped a week ago outside the gas station—both match.

His truck’s always parked in the same spot. Old Chevy, forest green, lifted just enough to clear brush. I’ve seen that exact tread on the side of the bait shop. I’d bet the shell casing came from the same trip.

I exhale slowly. My fists tighten without thinking. I’m not surprised. I’ve already discovered the guy’s got a mouth on him, the kind of man who throws his weight around the second someone makes him feel small. But this? Leaving boot prints outside Sadie’s house? Circling her like a predator?

I check my compass, reroute toward the ridgeline west of the shack. There’s a trail up there the loggers used years ago. I want to know how deep this rabbit hole goes. As I climb, my mind drifts back to Sadie. I could hear her fingers shaking just a little when she locked the door last night. Her voice when she said, ‘I don’t want to need you this much.’

She doesn’t know it yet but needing someone doesn’t make her weak. It means she’s still got something to protect. That puts her miles ahead of anyone in this town who’s already folded.

The ridge levels out. I stop at the top, crouch low, and scan the valley below. Not much to see but trees, an old switchback, and a rusted hunting stand leaning sideways into the brush. Still, I log the coordinates. This is where someone would sit if they wanted eyes on the shack from a distance.

By the time I start the descent, the sun’s higher. I check my watch. Still early enough to make my next move without drawing attention. I want to confront Joe. I want to pin him to the goddamn wall and ask him why he thinks he can put boots on Sadie’s property like he owns the dirt under her feet.

But I’ve learned better. Let a man think he’s not being watched, and he’ll always show his cards.

So I head back to town. Not fast. Not hidden either. Let them see me walking through the trees. Let them guess where I’ve been. I want whoever’s behind this to start sweating.

Because one thing’s certain now. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t kids. This was organized. Calculated. Someone in Glacier Hollow is building something in the shadows, and they’re trying to put Sadie in the middle of it. They’re going to regret that.

The cold sinks in deeper the closer I get to town. Not the kind you feel on your skin. The kind that lives beneath it—bone-deep, tight with instinct. I’ve been tracking threats my whole life, and whatever this is? It’s circling. Getting bolder.

I take the long way back, cutting down a side trail that loops around the gas station. Joe’s place. A squat cinderblock building with a flickering neon sign and three rusting pumps that look like they haven’t seen maintenance since the Clinton administration. I stop in, keeping it casual. Just a routine patrol, reminding him that I’m a presence. That’s the excuse I’ll use, if he asks.

Joe’s out front, stacking windshield fluid on a shelf like it’s a delicate art. He hears me before he sees me. I watch the shift in his shoulders. Quick. Tense. Not the reaction of a man with nothing to hide.

“Morning, Sheriff,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.

I nod, slow. “Joe.”

He wipes his hands on a rag, even though they’re already clean. Stalls. “Something I can help you with?”

I let the pause hang long enough for discomfort to settle in. “Routine check-in. Making the rounds. Saw a vehicle out past Mile Marker Seven. Tread looked familiar.”

Joe doesn’t flinch. But he also doesn’t ask what kind of tread. Doesn’t pretend to be curious. Just shrugs. “People dump all kinds of trash up that way.”

“Sure,” I say, stepping a little closer. “Have you been out that way recently?”

His mouth tightens. He shakes his head. “Nah. Busy here. Fuel shipments, tourists.”

There haven’t been tourists since February. And he knows I know it. I nod, feigning belief, and glanced at his old Ford parked beside the building. Same tread. I’d bet my badge on it. I don’t call him out. Not yet. Let him think I’m still connecting dots. Let him wonder how many I’ve already connected. That’s when people start making mistakes.

“You see anyone hanging around the café lately? After hours? Unfamiliar vehicles?” I ask.

Joe finally looks up. Brief eye contact. Then he shrugs again. “Just the usual crowd. Teens sometimes. Kids acting tough.”

Liar. But the kind who thinks he's smarter than he is.

“Alright,” I say, already turning back toward my office. “If you do, let me know. I’m tracking a pattern.”

That gets him. His shoulders jerk—just enough to register. Good. Let it stew.

Back at the sheriff’s office, I upload the cache contents from the shack to the server I had installed and attached to the state’s secure network when I first came to Glacier Hollow. The encrypted logbook is still a mess of symbols and half-coded entries, but I’ve got a few keywords flagged—names, GPS entries, dates. One matches the day before Tom Davies disappeared.

I make a note. It’s not enough for a warrant, not yet. But it’s getting there.

I walk over to the monitor on the far wall and pull up the live feeds from the motion-activated cameras I installed last week—one behind Sadie’s cottage, one at the alley behind the café. She doesn’t know about the second one. I didn’t ask. I’m not sorry.

I scan the timestamps. Four nights ago, both cameras logged motion within minutes of each other. Sadie never mentioned anyone in the alley. But there’s movement in the footage—a figure just outside frame. And then nothing.

I scrub forward. A gap. Two hours of dead feed. Like someone jammed it or disabled the power source. I check the other feed—same thing. Same window.

Whoever left that note knew where the blind spots were. That means this isn’t random. It’s tactical. Someone’s planning something bigger, and they’re getting too damn comfortable.

I lean back in my chair, jaw tight. I can’t be everywhere at once. But I can make damn sure whoever’s watching her knows they’re being watched right back.

I grab my jacket, lock up the footage with a digital watermark, and head back out.

If Joe’s in this, he won’t be alone.

* * *

The sun’s gone by the time I make it back into town, shadows stretching long over the ridge as the wind cuts colder. The kind of cold that sinks into bone. I don’t mind it—it keeps me sharp. Keeps me present. But tonight, it’s got a bite, and I don’t like what it’s trying to warn me about.

Joe’s garage didn’t give me what I wanted—not in words. But his silence? The way his hand shook when I stepped too close? That told me plenty. His tread matches what I found near Sadie’s. Same wear pattern. Same unique chunk missing from the heel. The bastard was there, and unless he’s got an explanation for why he’s leaving boot prints behind her house in the dead of night, we’ve got a problem. Correction—we already do.

I pull my phone from my jacket and hit the encrypted number buried beneath a dummy contact. It rings twice before a voice answers, low and sharp.

“MacAllister.”

“Knox,” I say, adjusting my grip on the wheel. “You still breathing?”

“Barely. Some asshole shot at a grizzly a half mile from my camp last week. Spooked the sow, tore up a trailhead. What do you need?”

I glance at the buildings passing by—the diner, the post office, the lit-up bar where locals pretend their problems stay behind with the empties. “A second set of eyes. Quiet ones.”

There’s a pause. The kind where you can hear someone lean forward through the line, like distance doesn’t matter when someone like Caleb Knox is thinking. “You onto something?”

“Not sure. It feels like someone’s circling. Not random. I need someone who can move in the trees without leaving a shadow.”

Another pause. Then, “Who’s the girl?”

I don’t ask how he knows. He always knows.

“Her name’s Sadie Callahan. Owns and runs the café. She’s smart. She’s not soft, but she’s alone. And someone’s targeting her.”

Knox’s breath comes through the line, slow and controlled. “You like her.”

“Not the point.”

“Bullshit. That is always the point… and the only one that counts.”

I don’t answer that. Instead, I say, “I’ve got tracks. A known player. A green truck. The night she found a note, one of my cameras behind her house was disabled. I don’t like coincidences.”

“You want me to shadow?”

“Just observe. Quiet. You see anything move that shouldn’t, I want to know.”

There’s a long beat. Then Knox says, “I’ll be on the ridge by dawn. Don’t bother trying to find me.”

He hangs up before I can thank him. Typical. I don’t need pleasantries from the man—I just need his eyes. And if there’s anyone better at vanishing into the mountain than me, it’s Caleb. Reclusive as hell, sharp as broken glass, and loyal to the last breath.

By the time I swing back toward Main Street, the café’s mostly dark. One light still burns in the kitchen window. She’s still inside.

I park behind the alley, cutting the engine before it echoes. My boots crunch against the gravel as I approach the back entrance, and I don’t knock. I never knock. I walk in like I belong there—because tonight, I do.

Sadie’s wiping down the front counter, back to me. Her hair’s tied up in a messy twist, a streak of flour at her jaw. She doesn’t turn when I come in—she doesn’t need to. She knows it’s me. Her shoulders shift like she’s bracing for something she doesn’t want to admit she wants.

“Still working?” I ask, voice low as I shut the door behind me.

She glances back, smile small but real. “Had to prep tomorrow’s inventory. Besides, I like the quiet.”

I step into the kitchen without asking. I’m past the point of needing permission. She hands me a rag automatically, and I fall into rhythm with her, wiping down surfaces already spotless.

“You check the locks?” I ask.

“Twice.”

“Good.”

She leans into the fridge, grabs a carton of eggs, and the movement pulls her shirt tighter across her back. I shouldn’t be looking. Doesn’t stop me.

When she turns, her eyes find mine, like she already knows where my head went. There’s a pull between us now, stronger than ever. It hums under the surface of everything we’re not saying.

I reach for a jar near the sink, and she steps in at the same time. We collide—not hard, but enough that my chest brushes her shoulder. Her breath catches, and my hand settles on the counter beside hers. Not touching. Not yet.

Her eyes flick to mine, wide and sharp. “Sorry.”

“I’m not,” I say, low. Honest.

She exhales, shaky but not afraid. I see it in her. The weight she’s carrying. The fight she’s still holding onto with both hands.

I step back before I forget myself, grab my jacket from the hook near the door. “I’m walking you home.”

She hesitates. “Zeke, you don’t have to?—”

“I do,” I cut in. “Because someone was there, Sadie. Someone who doesn’t belong. I’m not leaving you alone in the dark to pretend that’s okay.”

Her shoulders drop. Not in defeat. In trust. She grabs her coat, flips off the lights, and we walk into the night.

By the time we reach her cottage, the sky’s clear. The moon cuts silver across the snow, and the entire world feels like it’s waiting for something. She steps up onto the porch, keys in hand. I hover behind her, too close to be polite, too far to be a mistake.

She turns slowly. Her breath comes in clouds. So does mine.

There’s a smudge of flour on her chest, just beneath her collarbone. Without thinking, I reach up and brush it away with my thumb. She freezes beneath my touch. I swear her heart’s beating just as hard as mine.

“Thanks,” she says, voice a whisper.

I lower my mouth to hers and kiss her. No hesitation, no warning—just the heat of my hand sliding to the side of her neck, and then my mouth covering hers like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. She exhales against me, soft and startled, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers curl in my jacket, and when I deepen the kiss, she leans in like she’s been waiting for this—for me.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s weeks of tension, of unsaid words and guarded glances, burning down between us in one long, hungry kiss. I taste flour and coffee and the truth she won’t say out loud yet. Her lips part, and I take more, anchoring her against me with one hand at her waist, the other still cupped at her neck.

Then I pull back. Not because I want to—but because if I don’t, I won’t stop.

Her eyes are wide, lips parted, chest rising fast. She looks stunned. Wrecked. So do I.

But I step back, slow and controlled, every muscle tight. My voice is low when I speak. “Top and bottom lock.”

She nods, barely moving. Still watching me like I’ve unraveled something inside her.

I wait until the deadbolt clicks. Until I know she’s safe inside. Then I turn into the darkness, jaw tight, hand still tingling from where I touched her. My hands still remember the shape of her. My mouth still burns from the way she tasted. Whoever’s circling her, whoever thinks they can move pieces behind closed doors—they just made a fatal miscalculation.

And my promise still stands: whoever’s coming for her… they’re already too late.

Because I’m not circling. I’m closing in.