Chapter 1: Griffin

1

GRIFFIN

Six months ago

C ome on, Griffin. You can do this.

Rubbing my hands on my jean-clad thighs, I wipe the sweat from my palms and climb slowly from my truck. The claustrophobic feeling that I get being trapped inside the vehicle ebbs away. Dragging in a deep lungful of fresh mountain air and turning my face to the sky, I immediately start to feel better. Not great, but still better.

I take a second to check my state of mind as I scan the car park—something I never used to have to do, but now, I catch myself doing regularly.

The older I get, the more volatile I've become.

"Goddammit. God-fucking-damn-it, " I mutter. I'm torn between dealing with the consequences of going inside if my anger gets the better of me, and the tempting thought that if I leave now, I won't cause a scene. Why does everything have to be so hard?

It would be easier to get back in my truck and go home, but the last hope for keeping my sanity might lay just beyond those doors. It's the only thing I've thought of that could work.

"That bad, huh?"

The gravelly voice spooks me, and I bristle, annoyed at myself for being so in my head that I didn't spot him. Narrowing my eyes at the unwelcome stranger approaching from the far end of the small parking lot, I grunt, making it clear I'm not in the mood for small talk.

The stranger keeps coming, not getting the hint. I need to cut this conversation off before it even starts.

"Just forgot something," I mumble, aware that I must look a bit strange standing out here, staring up at the door to the log cabin, talking to myself. Pulling the driver's door of my truck open again, I pretend to search for something inside, he'll get the message this time and have moved along by the time I re-emerge.

He's not.

Instead, he's observing me closely. Hands loose at his sides, head tilted, he takes in my tense body language and the general aura of simmering anger that I'm told follows me around these days. But he's not shying away as most people do. As all of my friends have done.

"I know that look," he speaks quietly and avoids eye contact, somehow sidestepping the things that provoke me the most. "It's clawing at your insides, isn't it? Riding you hard to get away from me." His understanding tone is gentle, not accusatory. "How about I interview you while we walk? That might be more manageable."

As the man edges closer, slowly, like he's trying not to spook me, I notice he's wearing a neatly pressed ranger's shirt with "John" drawn carefully on a hand-written name tag. Equal parts suspicious and impressed with his astute assessment of my mood, I'm not sure what to say. While I'm standing still, trying to figure out exactly what he means, John heads for a narrow, well-worn path that leads straight into the forest, confident I'll follow.

"They'll be here all day," he calls over his shoulder. "If you're on a bit more of an even-keel when we get back, we can go in together and have a chat with them."

Do I look that amped-up? Adrenaline pumps through me, the fight or flight response fizzing my veins, Slowly, I unclench my fists, wincing when I see the deep, moon-shaped grooves I've pressed into my palms. At least they're not bleeding this time. My heart is pounding, and my muscles are twitching, ready for action.

Maybe it is that easy to see what a mess I am.

When I look up, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow, John has paused, examining marks on the bark of a nearby tree. Brushing his fingers over the grooves and pressing them into the gouges to check how deep they are, he frowns. John scans the ground around the base of the tree, then strokes the markings again with the flat of his palm.

"Bear?" I ask.

"Something like that." John scans the tree all the way to the top and stares up at the blue sky.

"Something like that? Aren't you a ranger?"

I'm certain he heard me, but he doesn't look at me, or comment on my smart-ass response. Instead, he turns the conversation back to me.

"There's a storm building inside you. You can't continue like this. It's going to break at some point, and it's best that you're up here in the wilds when it does." He twists his lips into a grimace. "I've seen it before. I can help you, make sure you don't get lost in it." With one last inspection of the tree, he sets off again. "If you want help, that is."

As he disappears around the corner, obscured by dense foliage, my mind races. Should I follow this stranger? I don't want help, but I need it. I'm exhausted. I've been fighting this for so long. Keeping the thing inside me at bay consumes my every waking minute. But can he really do anything for me?

Considering my limited options, my body decides for me, setting off after John at a brusque pace. When I catch up, he doesn't comment, just keeps moving along as I fall in step beside him, letting me soak up some peace from the vast forest around us. Eventually, surrounded by nature and finally calm, my curiosity gets the better of me.

"So, what do I do? To stop this from getting worse?"

Without breaking stride and still staring straight ahead, John tells me what I already knew but wasn't ready to admit. "Quit your job. Pack your stuff and move here. And do it soon—preferably before you kill someone."