Page 77 of Walking Away

“Then don’t let it change it,” Scout said. “She’s still her—the same woman who made you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how. The one Rosie glued herself to. Darcy… I mean, Caitlin—whatever name she had—she’s still the person you care for. So what if the name was a mask? Masks come off. You’ve got the real woman now. And she needs you.”

Burke lifted his head, eyes rimmed red but hard as steel. And he has her—Jason West. Rich bastard with lawyers and a jet waiting. He’s got her.

“Then we stop him before he gets there.”

Silence filled the office.

Burke nodded once. “You’re right. Even if she were just another case, we’d fight like hell. That’s what we do.”

Scout clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Damn right.”

For the first time since Emma’s porch, Burke felt the weight ease.

The sun hadn’t yet burned the fog off the Blue Ridge when Burke stepped outside. A morning that should have promised peace carried only dread. Caitlin was gone. Jason West had her.

Headlights swept across the yard. A state-issued SUV rolled up. Tessa Quinn stepped out, blazer crisp, badge glinting against her hip. Her eyes were sharp. She scanned the misty lot like she’d already mapped each exit, every shadow. When she shook Burke’s hand, her grip was steady—a small, practiced smile betraying nerves she refused to show.

Behind him, Tommy “Scout” Wilson shifted, leaning against his cruiser. He studied her—her crisp edges, her Raleigh polish. Gorgeous, sure, but what pricked at him wasn’t her looks. Outsiders didn’t know these ridges, the back hollows, the way fog swallowed sound. Pretty or not, she had to prove herself here.

“Glad Raleigh sent you,” Burke said, shaking her hand.

“Let’s get to work,” Tessa replied, setting a laptop on the SUV’s hood. Files filled her screen fast.

Her voice was crisp: “Jason West. Thirty-nine. Affluent developer out of Denver. Owner of West Custom Home Builders.Still legally married to Caitlin West. Multiple DV accusations, none substantiated.”

Tessa flipped screens. “Yesterday he flew into Asheville Regional. Used the company AmEx at Enterprise—black Chevy Tahoe. He hasn’t flown out. Jet’s still parked on the tarmac.”

Scout exhaled hard. “So he’s still here.”

Relief flickered across Burke’s face, sharp and fleeting. “Which means we still have a chance.”

Tessa nodded. “Exactly. We lock down every highway west, keep eyes on the airports, and push BOLOs on that Tahoe. He’s boxed in—for now.”

Before anyone could respond, the radio on Burke’s shoulder crackled: “Unit Five to base, I’ve got eyes on a silver Tacoma—eastbound, Highway 107, just passed Caney Fork. Vehicle’s weaving. High rate of speed.”

Scout straightened, keys in hand.

Burke snapped into the mic. “10-4, Unit Five. Maintain visual. All units roll. Signal 10-80 in progress.”

Engines fired across the lot. Tires threw mud. Blue lights cut through the fog.

Scout

His cruiser screamed down 107, engine roaring through mountain curves. Pines blurred, fog closing in. Ahead, the silver Tacoma fishtailed.

“Dispatch, Unit Two. I’m on the Tacoma,” Scout called, voice clipped.

“Copy, Unit Two. Sheriff Scott two minutes out.”

Burke’s SUV loomed steady in his rearview.

The Tacoma swerved into oncoming traffic, nearly clipping a minivan. Horns blared.

“Unit Five, suspect eastbound, Tuckasegee turnoff!”

Scout braked hard around the curve, tires squealing. The smell of burnt rubber flooded the cab as his cruiser fishtailed from the guardrail. The drop beyond vanished into fog.

“Son of a—” he hissed.