Chapter 3

“For the love, please turn that off.” Axel closed the basement door, freshly showered, having worked off some of the weekend stress in Moose’s home gym this evening after he’d returned from Copper Mountain.

Clearly, Moose had arrived home in the last hour, after flying the chopper down to the Air One base in Anchorage, then driving his truck up to his home on the Knik River. Axel had left after stopping into the Last Frontier and grabbing one of his mother’s homemade cinnamon rolls.

The news of the rescue made the local gossip chain, and he’d been stopped by no less than Hank Billings, Charlie Yazzie, and Sully’s uncle Wilson, who acted like he might be a hero or something.

He’d pasted on a smile, glad-handed them, and then headed out the door before he ran into Shasta or some other media person. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking agreeing to Mike Grizz’s reality show. Clearly, he hadn’t been thinking, really.

Stupid, stupid—and even more stupid. . . Especially as he stood in his brother’s main room watching the rescue play out on the screen.

Moose sat on his leather sofa, his feet up on his massive oak coffee table, watching the show on the flatscreen that hung from the two-story stone fireplace. He drank a cup of hot cocoa and now glanced over at Axel.

“Why? This is the part where you practically dive in to save that girl—what was her name?”

“I don’t remember,” Axel said. Ashley. Blonde, scared, a possible kidnapping victim. “What I do remember is not being able to rescue the driver.”

He walked over to the refrigerator. Moose had inherited the house from a donor of Air One Rescue—one who owed his life to Moose. Then again, a lot of people owed their lives to Moose, including himself, probably. Who knew how many times he’d nearly been swept away in the Copper River, or driven himself into a ditch, only to have Moose come looking for him in the dead of night? Or even track him down during those dark days after he’d left Kodiak. Probably Moose ran a dry house because he didn’t want to tempt Axel back into his nightmares.

No need—he wasn’t that guy anymore. Even if the nightmares had never left. He just knew how to keep them tucked in better.

Now he retrieved some eggs and put them on the counter. Got a pot of water and filled it, set it on the stove. “There’s only six eggs left.”

Moose looked at him. “Is that not enough for you?” He shook his head.

“What? Eggs are good for you.” He put all six into the pot.

On the screen, he pulled Ashley out of the dark, roiling waters of the Eagle River, helping her and a drenched Oaken Fox, their celebrity trainee, to shore.

The camera caught her being attended to by Boo Kingston, their EMT, and Shep Watson, another rescue tech. Axel noticed how their other rescue tech and copilot, London Brooks, made herself a little scarce—he hadn’t exactly spotted that before. In fact, he’d seen only a few of the shows, but he didn’t remember her appearing in any of them.

Oaken came on in a cameo to talk about the rescue, and Moose popped the volume down. He got up and walked into the kitchen as Axel watched the water boil. “What’s with you and this show? I would have thought you’d be more excited to see yourself on TV.”

“I’ve seen myself on TV before, Moose. I’m not a fan.”

Silence.

He looked at his brother, who folded his arms over his heavily muscled chest, all flannel, all north woods—the nickname Moose exactly right. The man always barreled into a person’s space without permission.

“What?”

“You’re being a little hard on yourself.”

“Really? You ever had to make a choice that cost a life? Watch a family be shattered because of you?”

His mouth tightened, and aw, maybe Axel was wound a little tight. He blamed his mood on the sleepless night and the nightmares the river always dredged up. On Aven and her haunting laughter, the smile she’d given him a moment before he missed her grip.

Her scream, lifting into the air, shaking him down to his soul.

“I’ve seen my share of rescues gone south,” Moose said quietly.

Yeah, probably. Axel glanced at the screen. The footage caught him diving back into the river, tethered to Shep on shore, swimming out to the submerged caravan that had careened off the road into the river, then tumbled into the rapids. It showed him catching up to it, searching it, then canvassing the rocks and shoreline.

A voice came over the screen as the shot faded out. “The driver, still unknown, was never recovered.”

Nice. Perfect.

His eggs had started to float to the top, so he pulled them out with a ladle and set them in a pan of ice water in the sink.

Outside, the day had turned grim, with the clouds low, a slight drizzle in the air. He poured himself a glass of milk.

Moose picked up the remote to turn the TV off when scenes of the next show began to play.

The snowstorm up at the Copper Mountain Lodge. The missing women from the bachelorette party, and then Oaken’s small tirade. They’d even caught footage of the guys eating out at the Skyport Diner, that pretty waitress Moose liked serving them midnight chicken.

Funny, but it occurred to him that Moose hadn’t been back to the Skyport in weeks.

Still, the footage stirred up the memories, especially of the woman, one of the lost, who’d been found, murdered.

Shot.

With a .270 Winchester.

Just like Aven.

Now, as he transferred his hard-boiled eggs to a plate to peel them, he looked up at Moose. “What if the guy didn’t die? What if he got away . . .”

Moose turned off the television. Turned to Axel, his expression grim. “What do you mean?”

“What if the guy in the caravan was the Midnight Sun Killer and I let him get away?” He couldn’t believe he’d voiced it, but that fear had been circling his brain for the better portion of a month. Maybe letting it out would ease the burn inside.

Moose gave a huff that sounded a little like disbelief.

“What was that for?”

“Just . . . no. You didn’t let the Midnight Sun Killer get free. If there is such a killer out there?—”

“Oh, I think there is?—”

“Still at work, after fifteen years? C’mon. I think they’ve attributed a handful of accidents to one sociopath?—”

“Accidents? Seriously, Moose, have you listened to any of the news? Done any research? This guy picks up women off the highway—sometimes lures them to stop, even, then takes them out to the woods, sexually assaults them, then sets them free to hunt them down. He’s killed, like, thirteen women, that they know of. And dozens of others are missing.”

“And you seriously think your missing driver is this guy?”

“Ashley said he’d followed her, picked her up?—”

“She left a bar. He grabbed her in the parking lot, from what I remember. And this was nowhere near where the Midnight Sun Killer left them.”

Axel stared at him. “What do you mean this was nowhere near where he left them? What do you know that I don’t?”

Moose got very quiet. “You’re not the only one who grieves Aven. Who wishes he’d done something different.”

Axel let that sit.

“But I don’t blame myself. And I don’t let it tell me who I am.”

Axel brushed off his hands. “I know who I am. I don’t need any reminders.” He picked up the plate and grabbed the salt and pepper shakers along with the bottle of sriracha. “Next time you decide to rent the Air One team to a reality show, I’m out.”

He headed downstairs, back to the basement, which felt a little like a dungeon, maybe, but also contained the media room, with the surround sound and one-hundred-twenty-inch screen, so he’d take it. Moose had let him rent the two bedrooms—one for an office—so it wasn’t like he was a freeloader.

Axel just needed to figure out what getting back on his feet looked like. How to swim out of the cauldron.

Sitting on the leather sofa, he set his plate on the ottoman, along with his condiments, and turned on the television.

Weather report, of course—a storm coming in from the Bering Sea, across the Alaskan peninsula, on the way to Kodiak Island and the Gulf of Alaska. No doubt the Coast Guard in Kodiak was on full alert.

He picked up an egg, slathered it with sriracha, and ate half in one bite.

“That looks wicked.”

Moose had followed him downstairs, holding a glass of orange juice. “Thought you might want some. I just squeezed it.”

Axel doctored the next bite, then popped it into his mouth and reached for the glass. Nodded.

Moose stood behind the sofa, watching the weather. “Wind gusts of ninety miles per hour? That’s nearly a cat-three hurricane.”

“Yeah. Hard to get a trail line down in those conditions. Even with a twenty-pound weight on the line, the wind just takes it.”

A pause, then, “Personal experience?”

“The Heritage wreck.” Axel salted another egg. “It was just off the coast of Kodiak, but it took us two hours to go five miles. I’ve never seen it so bad before, or since.”

“Except now.”

“Yeah. Nothing worse than being on scene and hearing those voices on the radio and not being able to save them. Want one?” He lifted the plate to Moose.

“This isn’t usually storm season.” Moose took an egg, then the proffered sriracha sauce bottle, and doctored it. Took a bite. “This is good.”

“Mm-Mmmhmm.”

“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier—I just . . . you know . . .”

“Don’t like me taking up space in your basement?”

“No. It’s a big house. Lots of room. But if being here is somehow keeping you from doing what God wants you to do?—”

“Bro. Step back Not everyone has your faith. Or wants it.”

Moose frowned.

“Listen. God and I aren’t at odds. It’s just that . . . I just . . . I feel like?—”

“You failed him?”

Axel leaned back into the cushions, picking up the remote. “Maybe. I don’t know. Or maybe God failed me. Sometimes it feels like both. But I don’t want to know the answer.”

“Faith is hard when you don’t trust the one you’re putting your faith in.”

“Leave it, Moose.” Axel turned the volume up to hear the reporter.

Upstairs, from Moose’s office, his pager rang. Oh, that couldn’t be good.

Moose headed up the stairs.

The reporter stood in the rain and gusts outside Air Station Kodiak, talking about the deployments of the current teams—four crews, three out on rescues, the other standing by.

Axel headed upstairs and stood outside Moose’s office, listening to Moose on his radio.

His chest tightened at the way Moose stared at the map, running his finger down to the Cook Inlet, near Homer. Nothing but rocky shore and underwater scabs there to hang up a boat.

“Roger, Sector Anchorage, we’ll deploy to the F/V Lady Luck. Will notify when we’re on site.”

Moose hung up the radio. “There’s a charter fishing vessel that’s adrift near the mouth of the Gulf of Alaska, west of Homer. Thirty-foot swells, ninety-knot winds, and they think they’re going to roll. The seas are too high to send out a cutter, and all the available Coast Guard teams are currently deployed, so they called us in for backup. You’ll probably get wet.”

“I’ll call Shep,” Axel said and headed for the door.

Moose picked up his keys. “Should have slept at the office.” He headed out the door. Axel grabbed his jacket and followed him out through the drizzle to Moose’s truck.

Overhead, thunder rolled, and as he got into the passenger seat, he was already cold.

But nothing compared to the gusts rolling into the deck of the chopper some ninety minutes later as Moose tried to hover over the pitching fishing boat. The thirty-seven-foot fishing vessel seemed like a bath toy in the dark, foamy water, violent waves crashing over the flybridge, ripping over the boat, and roiling into the deck cabin. The lifeboat swayed from the front, caught up in fishing line and rope, banging on the hull when the boat lifted out of the water.

Axel spotted people in orange life jackets clinging to the cabin inside even as one of them came out to wave at the Air One chopper.

Yeah, he was getting wet.

“Can you hover?” Axel said, attached to the chopper with the safety line, helmet on, garbed in his dry suit, gloves, a life jacket, and harness.

“For now. Let’s get you down there. Shep, check swimmer.”

Shep, their flight mechanic, checked Axel’s equipment, then hooked him into the line and grabbed the pendant. “Checking swimmer. Going out the door for load check.”

Axel pushed off and let the line hold him, Moose adjusting for the weight, then Shep gave him the thumbs-up, and he headed down to the dark ocean.

On the line, Axel spun, the wind trying to take him. He heard Shep barking distance and directions to Moose. Hit the deck, Moose. Hit the deck?—

A wave thundered down over him as his feet touched the boat’s deck. He slammed into the rail, caught it, held on as the boat pitched.

Even in June the water ripped out his breath at a bracing fifty degrees. The wave cleared and he turned, searching for the passengers.

Oh no,a family. A man, a woman, two kids, and the fishing captain.

Clearly terrified.

The family huddled together, the father, early forties, his arms around a little girl, maybe ten, skinny, her blonde braids sodden. The boy seemed older, maybe twelve, trying to look brave, jaw set. He held his mother’s hand.

The father wore a makeshift splint on his leg, a paddle roped to his shin. The woman, too, appeared bloodied, her arm wrapped in a towel, saturated.

“What happened?” He braced himself at the door.

“We were trying to loosen the lifeboat, and it slammed into us!” This from the woman, who looked at the captain with no small amount of anger.

“Okay, everyone calm down. We’re going to take you up, one by one?—”

“We don’t have time for that,” shouted the captain. Axel had gotten his name on the ride over—Captain Russell. Midthirties, a Kodiak local. Grew up on the sea.

Axel agreed with him. “Shep, I’m going to unclip—send down a basket. We need to get these kids up, ASAP.”

“I’m not going without my mom,” shouted the boy, and Axel held up his hand even as he unclipped.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you all out.” Promises. But he meant to keep them.

The line fell away, Shep hoisting it up even as the boat pitched hard. Axel grabbed the doorframe of the tiny cabin, the water drenching him. His dry suit helped, but the family had to be slowly sinking into hypothermia.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Aiden. And that’s Sophie.”

“Okay, Aiden. I’m putting you in charge of your sister. You hold on to her when you go up, okay?” Protocol said that he should ride up with them, but Aiden gave him a nod, and the ocean wasn’t playing fair.

A basket came down, swinging in the wind, and Axel stayed away until it hit the deck, then grabbed it in. Russell helped, and they dragged it to the door.

“Aiden, you’re up.”

He stood, looked at his mom, and she nodded. Aiden ran over, ducked into the basket.

Sophie was crying, but her father pushed her away, met eyes with her brother.

The look in his eyes shook through Axel, right down to his bone. He hardened his jaw, then grabbed the girl and helped her inside, strapped them in with a safety line, then radioed for the pull up.

The basket swung as it lifted off the boat, a wave right behind it, as if hoping to steal them back to the sea.

He let out a breath when Shep reeled them in, then sent the basket down again. Axel had gotten the names of the couple—Brian and Danae—and Axel set up Danae.

She disappeared into the chopper.

“How’re you doing, Moose?”

“We’re nearly at Bingo, Axe. Hurry up. And don’t die!”

Right. “Shep, send down a sling with the basket.”

Water crashed over the boat, slamming Axel into the cabin wall. The boat moaned.

“We’re taking on water!” Russell said.

“Yep.” He braced himself, then headed out to grab the basket.

“What are you doing?” Russell said as the basket came down, a sling attached.

Another wave hit, skidding the basket to the rail, nearly engulfing the cabin with water. Axel held on and the boat righted itself, but not before it had sucked out the fight from Brian, and maybe even Captain Russell. They shivered openly, both of them wan, fear in their eyes.

“We’re running out of time!” He grabbed Russell by the arm. “Help me get Brian in the basket.”

The water seemed to have pummeled the man, and he gasped for air, his eyes wide.

“Almost there,” Axel said. “This will hurt. But we’ll make it fast.”

Russell picked up Brian’s torso, and Axel moved his legs and ignored his shouts, although maybe the frigid water had helped curtail the pain, and in a moment, they wedged him into the basket. Axel grabbed the sling. “Get in.”

Russell climbed in, sitting on the sling.

“Hang on to the basket.” He sent a thumbs-up to the bird.

The boat pitched hard into a trough as the basket swung away, and Axel turned.

Oh. No. A wall of water curled over the boat, and at the rate of descent, would crash down over the basket?—

Maybe even drag the chopper into the depths.

“Moose, pull up. Pull up!”

He scrambled inside the cabin, then shut the door and threw the latch. The boat rode the trough up the front side of the wave—aw, they were going to pitchpole. But if the cabin could stay watertight?—

He threw himself down into the lower cabin and pulled the airtight hatch.

Then, as the boat pitched up, nearly vertical, he found the berth strap, slammed himself onto the berth and clasped it.

He grabbed a nearby rail as the boat slammed backward into the trough, the sound deafening as the wave thrashed it under the water. Then, caught in the submerged current and pushed horizontal, the boat rolled.

The strap caught him, but the roll slammed him against the berth, the walls, burning a line into his body.

But it held.

The boat finally stopped rolling, caught in the current under the surface—his best and most pitiful guess, because he hung from the bunk like a fish on a stringer, upside down.

And even as Axel unhooked and let himself down onto the ceiling-slash-floor, as he looked out the windows to the dark-hued shadows of the sea, he knew.

He was going down with the ship.

* * *

Flynn had traveled to the end of the world for nothing.

Two flights, including a delay, an overnight layover in a seedy hotel in Seattle, then a flight to Anchorage—and of course, the rental company had given away her car—so another night in an even seedier hotel near the airport, and then, finally, a drive through the drizzly day north to the chilly town of Copper Mountain.

At least the sky had stopped weeping. Three hours north of Anchorage, the spectacular Denali mountain range sat under a vivid blue sky, the clouds high and wispy, and the fresh dump of white on the peaks glistened like diamonds.

Not the place for dreams to die.

Now, Flynn stared at the massive map of Alaska that spanned the sheriff’s office, the one with the roads marked, including the dirt forest service paths into the woods. Where are you, Kennedy?

County sheriff Deke Starr clearly hadn’t been expecting her to show up again, but he’d been willing to listen to her request to dig through the evidence and maybe unearth something new.

She sighed and turned as he arrived back at his office, holding what she considered a terribly thin file.

“Only because you’re a fellow detective,” he said, handing it to her. “Those are copies. It’s considered a cold case because, well . . .”

“You never found a body.”

“We’re not sure she’s even dead, Ms. Turnquist.”

“Flynn. And I’m not either, to be honest. If it weren’t for this . . .” She touched the jagged half-heart pendant. “Thank you for sending it back to me.”

“Seemed like the right thing to do. All the DNA evidence we gathered is in the file. Only two matches—your sister, and the victim, still unknown. And with the wounds consistent with the Midnight Sun Killer’s MO, and you coming here to search for her…we’re sorry we’ve never had any more leads.”

She nodded. “Me too. Is the victim’s information in here too?”

He shook his head. “That’s an open case, what with the newest victim.”

She sighed. “I heard about that. A woman near the Copper Mountain Ski Resort?”

“Yes. She and a group of friends got lost during a snowstorm and all but she were found. A SAR team found her, shot, on the edge of the property, not far from the chalet. We didn’t know if she was running from the lodge or toward it. But the bullet matched the rest—a .270 Winchester.”

Flynn had turned to the map to find the ski resort. Put a finger on it. “It’s next to Remington land, where a couple of the other victims were found.”

“Yes. But there were others, located farther downstream. I’m not sure there’s a connection to Remington land.”

She opened the file and looked at the summary. “There’s no mention of an interview with the owner.”

“Oh, we talked. I know Ox personally. He runs the gold-mining operation west of here. That land was bought by his father years ago, before he arrived here. Hunting land. He never uses it.”

“Someone does.” She closed the file. “Maybe a son, or a relative?”

She liked Deke, overall. Good-looking, dark hair, pale blue eyes. He seemed like he cared, like he wasn’t putting her off.

“Maybe. He has two sons who work the claim with him—Jude and Nash. I saw Nash in town earlier, talking with Peyton, his fiancée, over at the forest ranger’s office.”

“Peyton Samson?” She opened the file again. “That’s the ranger who runs the wolf-tracking program. She was Kennedy’s boss.”

“We’ve already interviewed her—the copy is in the file. She didn’t sense that Kennedy was in any distress when she left her at the cabin.”

Flynn turned to the map again, checked the black-and-white copy of the map in the file, then found it on the grid. “Here, on the Copper River, just a few miles from the Bowie road.”

“That’s the one.” He stepped up to the map. “You can only get there by four-wheeler—or dogsled in the winter. Or good, old-fashioned hiking. Only trouble out there is black bears and grizzlies.”

She gave him a look.

“Sorry. I . . . Listen, Flynn. People go missing in Alaska all the time, whether by choice or by animal accident or, yes, occasionally foul play. I’m sorry to say that there is no reason to believe that Kennedy was murdered.”

“Except for her necklace ending up on a murder victim.”

He lifted a shoulder. “She could have lost it, maybe in the bathroom at the Midnight Sun, and it got picked up by this girl. Any number of scenarios could explain this.”

He spoke quietly, gently, and she recognized the tone. She’d used it herself, especially when talking to relatives of people gone missing, family who were desperate for answers.

And she couldn’t argue with him—she might hand out the same explanation. Except, “My parents want to have a memorial service. It’s not like Kennedy to just . . . vanish. We were on good terms. I mean, yeah, we had a disagreement the last time I saw her?—”

“Where was that?”

“Actually, the Copper Mountain resort. We came out here to go skiing, and she wanted to stay.” She palmed the file. “Apparently she did.” She looked out the window to the ranger station down the street. “You know that feeling as a detective, when you just feel that you’re missing something, but it’s out there just beyond your reach, like you’re reaching into a fog, and if you just put your hand on it . . .”

“I think that’s called faith.”

“Or just desperate hope.”

“Could be the same thing.”

Right.“You said Peyton was here, with Nash?”

“Probably stopping in to see her folks before she heads out to the bush again. The Samsons have a summer home in Copper Mountain. Try the ranger station first, though. And, Flynn, I’m not saying that she’s dead or alive. I just don’t know where to go from here.”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” she said and shook his hand.

The air smelled of fresh river, summer flowers, a chilly breeze from the north sweeping into the valley, with the slightest scent of smoky barbeque hinting the air. She checked her watch—still early, before six, but it didn’t matter really. Not with the sun up almost twenty-four hours a day.

She headed across the street to the ranger station, a few backpackers sitting on the apron deck, probably waiting for permits. One of the women, her auburn hair tied into two braids that fell out of her yellow bandanna, laughed, and the sound and sight of her nearly made Flynn stumble, the sense of Kennedy suddenly deeply, painfully raw.

The girl turned then and looked at Flynn and smiled, and no, she didn’t have Kennedy’s green eyes, the smattering of freckles across her nose, but still.

Her sister couldn’t be dead.

Flynn pushed inside the ranger station. A small line in front of a permit window confirmed her guess, but she went to the counter and a teenager with blonde hair, dressed in cutoff shorts and a white shirt asked if she could help her.

“I’m looking for Peyton Samson,” she said.

“Parker, you’re not supposed to be helping guests,” said a woman from a side office. She emerged as the blonde stepped back, hands raised, and Flynn immediately recognized her.

Hard woman to forget, really. Dark-skinned, with hints of Native American in her features, her dark hair pulled back under a yellow bandanna, wearing a ranger uniform, patches on her arm that suggested a long tenure with the park service.

“I’m Peyton,” she said. Then frowned. “Wait—it’s Flynn, right?”

“Good memory,” Flynn said. “I was hoping I could talk to you about my sister.”

“Kennedy.” She gestured Flynn back to her office, unlatching and holding onto a swinging door. “Still no word from her”

“No.”

“I’m so sorry.” She gestured to the open door and walked in. A man leaned up from where he’d perched on a credenza.

Peyton gestured to him. “This is my fiancé, Nash.”

Good-looking guy, wore a hint of a beard, had a Brad Pitt-goes-to-Montana sort of aura about him in his khaki shirt, jeans, and boots.

Flynn shook his hand.

“Flynn is a detective from Minneapolis. Her sister went missing a few years ago around here. She’s still looking for her,” Peyton said.

“I’m sorry.”

“She was working for me as an intern—staying at one of the cache cabins over by the Copper River, near your land.”

“Really.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve never been there, but that’s pretty wild country.”

Deke’s words pinged inside Flynn. “Yeah. It’s possible she was attacked by a bear or?—”

“Oh, I don’t know. That’s right near the Bowie hunting lodge. I think the bears stay away. Was she a kayaker?”

“Yeah. Loved the outdoors.”

“Then better bet is that she got tangled in the river somehow.”

She frowned. “Really?”

“There’s a tributary off the river—a lot of fishermen get salmon there. But I know that Air One Rescue has pulled more than a few kayakers off the river after going over the falls.” He stepped forward and leaned over the desk. “I’ll see you in a few days. Please stay safe.” Then he kissed Peyton.

“Nice to meet you, Flynn,” he said, and left.

“Are you going somewhere?” Flynn asked Peyton. “Why do you have to stay safe?”

“Actually, I’m headed out into the bush—in that direction, just a little south. We’re studying the migration patterns of a number of wolf packs, and one of them has been spotted way out of their territory. I’m taking a four-wheeler in to see if I can figure out why.” Peyton considered Flynn. “You as outdoorsy as your sister?”

“Absolutely. We’re twins, after all.”

“I can see that. Okay, I’m leaving in an hour. If you want to check out the cabin where she stayed, I’ll drop you off on the way. Meet me outside with gear.”

“What kind of gear?”

“Do you have a sleeping bag? Food?”

“I will. Thanks, Peyton.”

She stepped outside. The sun gleamed on the river down the street, deep blue, fresh, alive. And she felt it in her soul.

Hope.

An hour later, she’d purchased a sleeping bag from Bowie Mountain Gear, along with hiking boots, a rain poncho, a kit of kitchen supplies the good-looking owner had suggested, along with some dehydrated food, and even a pack. Then she joined the other hikers on the deck.

Peyton came out of the office wearing her own pack and waved her over.

They got into a truck, a four-wheeler parked on the bed. Despite the mud-caked wheels, it seemed clean, with a couple jerry cans shoved alongside it on either side. A couple ramps were tied across the back, over the tailgate.

Peyton dropped her pack up front, behind the front tire of the four-wheeler. “There’s a space on the other side for yours.”

And then they were off.

An hour later, Peyton parked the truck at a private home, waving to the owner, then unloaded the four-wheeler and told Flynn to climb onto the back. They drove another hour into the woods, following what felt like deer trails, hopping off now and again to move downed trees, and even driving down a rugged shoreline to follow the riverbed all the way to…oh no. The last place Flynn had imagined she’d sleep tonight was a one-room shack that shared space with a nest of mice.

Flynn had to admit, when she’d heard the words “drop you off,” she’d imagined Peyton pulling up to a cabin set in the shadow of some mountainside with a flowing creek and maybe handing her more than a handheld radio and a promise to return in two days.

But Peyton seemed nonplussed by the condition of the cabin, a one-room timber shack that served as a way-side rest for local forest rangers. It contained a wooden bunk bed, a stove, a small rough-hewn table, and a counter and sink.

But the porch did overlook a river, wide and glistening under the afternoon sun.

“A good sweep, some fresh air, and you’ll be golden.” She checked the potbellied stove. “No nests, and there’s some fresh wood in the bin”——” she pointed to a wooden box—“so you should be warm enough. The river is fresh, but you can boil the water if you want.”

She pointed to a cupboard where Flynn found a kettle, some dusty metal plates and forks, metal coffee cups.

Then she handed Peyton a handheld radio. “I’m on channel six. And I’m only a couple miles away, downstream. We keep a kayak under the porch if you need it, but if you’re not a proficient paddler, I’d stay on the hiking trails. If you need me, call me. I’ll be here in a jiff.”

A jiff. What was that in Alaska time?

“Oh, and I almost forgot. If you get desperate, there’s a ham radio.” Peyton opened the bottom cupboard. A small radio sat on the shelf, and she pulled it out and turned it on. It powered up. “Oh good, it’s working. I replaced the twelve-volt battery last time I was here, so it probably has plenty of juice. We keep it out here for emergencies. Or if you get lonely, you might find someone listening on the other end.” She winked.

Flynn didn’t have a clue how to use such a thing. She followed Peyton out of the cabin.

Peyton paused before she got onto the four-wheeler. Then her smile fell. “You sure about this?”

Flynn stood in the yard. Actually, despite her first impression, the cabin seemed like a haven in the middle of all this wild. A small front porch held a homemade Adirondack chair, and inside, the bunk bed would at least have her sleeping off the floor. She had food, and the river glistened a deep blue under the sun. Sheesh, it could nearly be called paradise.

And then there was the silence. Or maybe just . . . the absence of clutter. Of voices and demands and people calling her and knocking on her door and . . .

Maybe she should have left more than a voicemail on her mother’s phone. But she didn’t need questions. Or fear.

Or . . . well, reminders that she was the only daughter left.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You will. Oh, and . . . I brought a bear gun. Just in case Nash is wrong.” She pressed a little Glock G20 into Flynn’s hand. “I’m assuming since you’re a cop?—”

“I know how to use it.” She checked the safety, found it on.

“It won’t kill a grizzly, but it might scare it away. Radio me if you need anything.”

Flynn waved as Peyton took off, hating how hard she held onto Peyton’s words. But if Kennedy could stay here, so could she.

Except Kennedy had gone missing . . . from . . . here.

But Kennedy wasn’t a cop.

And if Flynn wanted to figure out how or why her sister went missing, maybe staying at her last known location could unlock something.

Even if it was only how to say goodbye.

She took a breath. Stared at the river for a long time. Frothy and wild, it mesmerized her, but she couldn’t nail why. Or why she’d so easily dismissed Nash’s words. No, Kennedy hadn’t gone missing in the Copper River. Or maybe Flynn simply didn’t want to believe it.

Heading inside, she found the kettle, then a pot and pan along with the silverware and plates, and took them to the river. Washed them out, left them to dry on a towel from her pack, then went inside and swept out the entire cabin, including the rafters, the windows, the bunk beds, the cupboards, and finally the floors.

She put away the clean dishes and was wiping down the wooden table when she spotted the hash marks.

No, not hash marks—a carving. She ran her finger over it. A bird. Probably a sparrow, to be more precise.

Her throat tightened. Hey, Kennedy.

She blew out her breath. Closed her eyes. Okay. Maybe this crazy feeling could be attributed to faith. Oh, she wanted to believe that.

She walked outside and stood on the porch. “Kennedy, if you’re out here, send me a sign. Something?—”

The crackle emanating from behind her nearly shot her out of her skin.

“CQ, CQ, CQ, this is . . . um, KL7SEA . . . CQ, CQ, CQ, this is KL7SEA . . .”

She turned. The voice came from the ham radio, still on, sitting on the table. A small box with a handheld mic. She picked it up. “Hello? Um . . . hello?”

“Hello! Hello—um, QRZ?”

“I’m sorry—I don’t know ham-radio-speak.”

“Who is this?”

It needled through her that whoever was on the other end just might be . . . well, maybe not Kennedy’s killer, but the last thing she needed was to tell him she was here alone, right?

“Just a researcher. You can call me . . . um . . .” Wait. “Sparrow.”

“Sparrow, I need your help. My name is Axel Mulligan. I’m on a capsized boat in the middle of Cook Inlet. And I think my team believes I’m dead.”

She had nothing.

“Hello?”

“I heard you. What . . . can I do?”

“Get ahold of Air One Rescue in Anchorage and tell them to come back for me.”

And how—Peyton could probably figure that out.

“Roger. Okay. Um, I’m sort of . . . out in the boonies?” Oh, please let him not be a serial killer. “But hang on. I’ll try. Stay there.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

He sounded a little sardonic, maybe.

She picked up the radio Peyton had left her. “Peyton. Calling Peyton. Come in, Peyton.”

Static.

She tried again.

Nothing. C’mon, Peyton.

Just static.

She closed her eyes. Breathe. Then she picked up the mic. “You still there?”