Page 62 of Walking Away

Evan & Izzy

The Fork Ridge trail wound upward in a ribbon of leaf litter and granite—air like cold glass. Sunlight slashed through rhododendron in bright coins.

Izzy’s boot slid on a root, and she laughed, breathless. “God, I’m so out of shape,” she teased, brushing it off.

Evan chuckled, offering a hand. “Guess I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

She let him pull her along. The higher they climbed, the quieter it grew—just their steps and the dry whisper of oak leaves.

At the overlook, the world opened—blue ridges stacked to the horizon, the courthouse a white toy on its hill far below. Izzy lifted her arms and closed her eyes.

“This is exactly what I needed. Freedom. Beauty everywhere.”

Evan stepped close. That faint cologne—sharp, metallic—curled into the clean mountain air.

“You fit here,” he murmured. “Like you belong.”

She flushed. “Maybe. But this is vacation. I’ll go back.”

“Maybe not,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.

She let him kiss her—gentle, coaxing—and for a heartbeat she melted into it, giddy with the thrill.

When she pulled back, he smiled like he’d won.

Pathetic,he thought, the warmth never reaching his eyes.A view and two soft lines, and she’s mine. They’re all the same—hungry to be seen. Smile. Touch. And they hand you the keys.

Izzy hugged herself against the breeze, cheeks still pink. “Guess I’ll have to make these last days count.”

“You will,” he promised, brushing her knuckles with his thumb.She thinks this is sweet. Let her. Control feels like love if you lace it right.

On the hike down, she talked about Denver, her condo, and which coffee place had the best croissants. Evan nodded, collecting crumbs.Keep talking, sweetheart. Every word is leverage.

When a jogger trotted past, he angled his body so Izzy took the narrow inside line against the drop. Casual, protective—calibrated.

She smiled, unworried. He smiled back and kept inventory.

One step closer. She thinks this is a fling. Once she’s gone, snatching Darcy gets easier. The sheriff. The damn dog. They won’t stop me. I’ll strip her world to studs. When she’s begging for air, she’ll remember who writes the rules.

Back in Town

Late-afternoon light slanted warm across the cottage yard. Rosie sprawled on the porch, chin on her paws, ears twitching at every squirrel and shifting leaf. She dozed and woke in quick loops, as if even her dreams kept watch.

Darcy stood barefoot at the top step, mug cradled in both hands, scanning the trees without quite meaning to.

Maybe I’ll sleep tonight,she told herself, watching Rosie breathe.

Rosie’s eyes cracked open, nose twitching at a hint of something just beyond the edge of the yard—a trace of cologne, or last night’s campfire smoke. She huffed, low and uncertain, and Darcy reached down, fingers brushing the soft fur behind her ears. They held still together, both of them listening as the wind shifted. Then Rosie settled, but didn’t quite close her eyes, her body stretched long between rest and watchfulness, standing guard as the mountain dusk settled in.

Chapter 35

Surveillance

Evan Cole

Evan Cole crouched behind the trees, camera angled toward the little cottage on Oak Street. Freshly painted cornflower blue with white shutters, it looked like something off a postcard. The porch gleamed, a massive oak spreading wide above, the tin roof catching the afternoon light like silver.

Pretty. Cozy. Almost perfect.