Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“T his handsome guy was just standing on your deck?” The question came from Anchorage detective Flynn Turnquist, who crouched in the lobby of the Tooth, the headquarters for the Air One Rescue team, located at Merrill Field on the north side of Anchorage. Her hands rubbed the floppy black ears of his visitor slash new roommate, and the dog leaned its head to one side and groaned, something deep and happy emanating from the inside.

“Yeah,” Shep said, setting the coffeepot back into the maker and coming around the giant island that separated the kitchen from the main area—a long table where they held conferences, and a seating area complete with worn leather furniture and a table in the center, all facing a flatscreen television. When the team wasn’t working out, training, or tending to their equipment, they watched a lot of MacGyver and Magnum, P.I. Moose loved the old shows, and he’d made a convert out of all of them.

With the advent of the season’s first snowfall, the tourist season had died down, and with it, their callouts, although hunting season had begun. Still, that left more time for workouts, training, and downtime.

That would end with the first real blizzard, however.

He couldn’t wait for something to take his mind off London.

“The light went on outside, and I wasn’t sleeping, so I got up and found him,” Shep said as he walked over to Flynn. “He was eating some beef jerky. He’d gotten into my trash. I had a T-bone steak the other night for dinner and set the bone outside . . .”

“Poor guy. He was hungry.”

“And thirsty. Drank about a gallon, then went for the eternal drinking fountain in the bathroom. I shut that down. He slept in my laundry room.” He crouched beside the dog. “After I gave him a bath.”

“He’s pretty,” said Axel from where he sat at the table, scrolling through his phone. “What kind is he?”

“I dunno. Sort of looks like a black lab.”

“Except for this brown patch here,” said Flynn, indicating the fur on his chest. “And his snout is too narrow. Doberman, all the way.”

“Maybe a mixed breed,” said Shep. “Anyway, he’s a good dog. He didn’t whine once, and when I told him to lie down, he immediately obeyed me. I’m going to take him into a shelter and see if he’s chipped.”

“What if he’s not? Are you going to keep him?” Flynn stood up. She wore her auburn hair back, a pair of leggings tucked into boots, an oversized tunic. Makeup. Maybe they’d come from morning worship. Since she’d saved the life of Axel Mulligan, Moose’s brother, and they’d begun dating, they’d started attending a local church.

Two years and Shep still hadn’t found a place to worship.

Hadn’t really looked, honestly, so that was on him.

“I can’t?—”

Axel looked over at Shep, frowned.

“—imagine that he doesn’t have an owner.” The last thing Shep wanted was to let the team know, well, that he was running away. Or maybe just trying to move on, forget.

Start over.

Right. As if . He’d given his stupid heart away to London Brooks long ago, and frankly, he didn’t have a hope of getting it back.

Flynn got up. “I love dogs.”

“Maybe you can take him.” Shep didn’t know why he’d said that—just, well, maybe the dog had nudged into a nook or cranny of his heart.

“No . . . no. I am way too busy for a dog.” She looked at Axel. “I can barely keep a boyfriend.”

“I’ll sleep on your porch if I have to,” Axel said, winking. He glanced at Shep, and Shep remembered a recent conversation about Axel hoping to propose after he’d found a place to live that wasn’t his brother’s basement.

Flynn walked over to Axel to peer over his shoulder. “Find anything?”

“Everything is too expensive or too run-down or in a bad neighborhood or . . . I don’t know. I don’t like anything.”

“Spoken like a man who has a massive flatscreen and a live-in chef who cooks him steaks every Friday night.”

“A crabby, bossy chef who also collects rent from me and tells me to turn off the lights every time I come upstairs.” He glanced at Shep. “Besides, as soon as Tillie and Hazel get back from Florida, I think Moose has plans .”

That made sense. Moose had been in love with Tillie from back when she was just his favorite waitress at the Skyport Diner. Felt weird to think of Tillie like that now.

Now she’d blown them all away with her background as a US Marine, an MMA fighter, and two-time champion of the Iron Maiden competition.

With a daughter.

“That’s a lot to consider—taking on an instant family,” Shep said. “Lots of hidden land mines there.”

“Can’t plan for every contingency, Shep,” Axel said. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Shep shrugged. “It’s better than following your impulses. Like leaping onto a sinking ship without an exit strategy. . . .”

Axel glanced at Flynn. “I dunno. That seemed to turn out all right.”

Shep shook his head, refrained from rolling his eyes. But okay, maybe .

He just never wanted to live life that unhinged, thank you. People who thought ahead didn’t end up in over their heads, out of control and, well, in a tree facedown.

He’d taken Flynn’s place, petting the dog. “What are you looking for?”

“A house. A condo. A townhome. Anything. I need to get out of my brother’s basement.”

“Says his girlfriend.” Flynn looked over at Shep and winked.

Shep gave them a smile and got up. “Need something to drink while I work out, buddy?” He walked over to the cupboard, found a bowl, filled it, and then brought it over to the entry, where he set it on the floor.

The dog walked over, looked at the bowl. And obviously wasn’t thrilled, because he stuck his wet snout into Shep’s hand and nudged it.

“Oh, I see how it is.” He’d found some cheese sticks in his refrigerator this morning, in lieu of dog food, and must have created a monster. Now he pulled out his last string cheese packet from his bag.

“You need to give that animal real food.”

“He loves string cheese.” He knelt and fed him, breaking the cheese into pieces.

“Methinks someone is in a better place today,” Flynn said quietly.

Shep looked at her, the words a hot sliver through him. Oh, maybe . But he wasn’t sure he liked it. “I’m going to work out.”

“Shep—”

He stopped on his way to the locker room. Met her eyes. “I’ll always be ten feet underwater, dragging her frozen, broken body out of her car. Always be the guy who knows that the last thing she knew was terror. So no, I’m not in a better place. I’m—” He took a breath. Stuck . He was stuck. “Just . . . unless you have an update from the Anchorage PD, just leave it, Flynn.”

She sighed, shook her head. “No update.”

“Perfect.”

“Moose said you two have history. Do you know her parents? Do they know?”

He ran a hand across his mouth. “I don’t know. I met them, a long time ago. They live overseas—I’m not sure where. I did call my father—thought he might be able to find them—but my call went to voice mail.” Of course. “They travel a lot, so . . .”

In fact, he hadn’t talked to his parents since before London’s death. Not that they connected a lot, with them on the road. But still . . . sometimes he wondered if he might be an afterthought.

No, not sometimes. Always.

“I’ll try and track them down,” he said now to Flynn. “But without confirmation, I’m not sure what to tell them.”

Flynn gave him a frown, a hue of sadness in her eyes. “Are you still holding out hope . . .”

He drew in a breath. Then, “No. No hope.” He brushed past her, into the locker room.

Pulling off his boots and jeans, he put on shorts. Okay, maybe he’d been a little cold. Because it did help to have someone—or something —to take his mind off . . .

Aw , and now he was back on the deck, his feet freezing, his heartbeat pounding as he stared out into the darkness. Because for a moment there, last night, when the light flickered on, he’d thought—wildly hoped—that maybe . . . no, really, he knew it couldn’t be—but maybe London might be standing on his deck. Alive. With a crazy story. He didn’t care what it was—he’d pull her into his arms and bypass all the just-friends nonsense and kiss her.

His slammed locker resounded through the room. His mood had evidently fouled when he emerged.

The HQ was empty, except for the dog—which he should probably name—so Axel and Flynn had most likely gone to look at a house.

Shep headed to the back, where Moose, their boss and founder, had built a weight room. He turned on the television and found it still on the National Geographic channel, so someone had been watching reruns of the crazy survival show they’d filmed six months ago. For some reason, the rookie training of Oaken Fox as he’d joined the Air One Rescue team had hit a chord with fans, and the channel had already rerun their full six episodes twice.

An episode of Locked Up Abroad came on now, and while he picked up the jump rope and warmed up with a hundred hits, he watched the story of a woman who’d smuggled drugs into Italy, gotten arrested, and been imprisoned for five years.

Yeah, that sounded unfun.

He finished his kettlebell routine just as the show finished. Then he cooled down with more jumping rope.

He found the dog lying near the door, its head on its paws, watching as he turned off the television. “I’ll bet you didn’t like getting locked up either, huh?”

The dog got up, followed him down the hallway, then climbed onto the leather sofa as Shep headed into the locker room.

Moose would love that.

Shep showered and changed clothes, Moose on his mind. He should probably tell him . . .

Maybe Axel could buy his townhome. Then Shep could get in his Tahoe and head back to Montana and start his entire life over again.

Maybe he had crawled out of the dark place today, into the bleak, gray, barren plain ahead.

Moose sat on the sofa, his hand on the dog’s head, when Shep emerged from the locker room.

“Oh, uh, sorry, boss.”

“This your dog?”

“No. Yes. . . . I don’t know. He showed up on my deck last night.”

“Nice dog. Calming.” Moose stood up. “Listen. Tillie’s coming back into town tomorrow, so I need to talk to you about something.”

Aw, he knew about the townhouse. “Okay, listen, I know?—”

“I need you to take over the training schedule.”

Oh.

“I know—I hate asking, Shep. But you’re the only one who I trust to get it done.”

He meant now that London was gone.

“We’ve gone a month without anything, and with winter upon us, we could use some snow training—avalanche rescue, snowmobile skills, maybe ice rescues. You can simulate some of that at the Shed. Feel free to reach out to any of the climbing gyms around and see where we can set up for an ice rescue. I think PEAK Sports Center has an ice-climbing sim we could use. And ask your pals with the ski patrol if we can get on the slopes and simulate an avalanche rescue.”

Shep swallowed, his throat tight.

“I’m sorry, Shep. I hate to ask you, and I know this is the last thing you want to do . . .” Moose hesitated, then, “No one is going to forget her, Shep. I promise. But we have to keep moving forward, and my plate is full. I don’t want to drop the ball, and with Axel trying to buy a house . . . well, I thought, too, maybe it would be good for you to . . .”

Yeah, he got it. Stay busy .

As if his brain would ever not be caught in the clench of grief, the spiral of what-ifs. But in Moose’s mind, being busy might help.

“It’s okay. I’ll put something together.” Maybe this was the last thing he could do for Moose since he’d be leaving him another man down.

Moose gave him a tight smile and put his hand on Shep’s shoulder. Squeezed. “Maybe it’s time to think about a memorial service.”

Shep shrugged the big man’s hand away. “I’ll put that schedule together.” He moved past him toward the door. “C’mon . . . Shadow.”

The dog got up and followed him out the door.

Huh .

He put down a blanket in the backseat of the Tahoe, and Shadow bounded in, rounded a couple times to nest, then lay down. Sighed.

“Me too, pal.” The dog did bring unexpected comfort. He ran his hand over the dog’s snout, and Shadow’s tail thumped.

He closed the door, got into the front, and then headed toward the Alaska Animal Rescue shelter.

As he pulled up, barking lifted from the building, located between a furniture store and a residential care facility. Maybe they had a run in the back.

Behind him, Shadow sat up, ears perked. Oops, he hadn’t brought a leash. Shep got out and headed inside, where a woman sat at a desk, her dark hair pulled back. She didn’t look up at him.

“I found a dog.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He doesn’t have a collar.”

“Bring him in. Leashes are hanging by the door.” She pointed to a rack of orange leads.

“I was hoping you might scan him and see if he has a chip.”

“Sure. We can do that.” No other signs of life.

Ho-kay . He grabbed a lead and headed outside, opened the car door. Shadow looked at him, panting.

“It’s okay, pal,” he said, not quite believing himself as he made a loop and put it over the dog’s head. Then he stepped back. “Come.”

Shadow got up and hopped out.

Sat beside him.

“Sorry, pal. We have to go in there.”

He took a step, and for the first time, Shadow didn’t budge, just emitted a whine.

“Hey, listen, we’re just going to see if you have a family, okay? This is a good thing.”

Shadow looked at him, and something in his eyes made Shep crouch in front of him. “I won’t leave you there. Really.”

The dog considered him for a moment, then suddenly slurped his chin. Oh ?—

Shadow got up, and when Shep moved toward the building, the dog heeled. Yeah, good dog.

They went inside, and Shadow’s ears pricked forward. He sat, panting hard as Shep stood in front of the desk.

Somebody was stressed out.

“I’ll send someone out to get him,” said the woman. She wore a nametag—Nora.

He leaned on the counter. “Listen, Nora, I know you’re busy. And the last thing you want is a guy coming in here needing help with his stray dog. But see . . . I think this dog actually belongs to someone. And I keep thinking about a little girl who lost her best friend and is really scared and worried, and I’m thinking, I’ll bet you’d like to get this guy back to his family as much as I would.”

She looked up at him, raised an eyebrow.

“I just want to get him scanned. Then”—he looked at Shadow, who stared up at him with those big brown eyes—“I’ll take him home with me.”

Not forever. Just until they found his home.

“Fine.” Nora picked up a small handheld scanner. She came around the desk, through the swinging doors, and felt around Shadow’s neck. She scanned him and looked at the readout.

“Yeah, he’s in the system. Let me look him up.”

She returned to her computer. Typed in the number on her scanner. “Okay, says that he’s from Minnesota. No one has listed him as missing, but there’s quite a bit of information on him—says he’s a legit companion dog for people with PTSD.”

No wonder he was so well trained. “He has an owner?”

“Yes. We can try to contact him. And you’re welcome to leave him here until we do.”

He looked at Shadow, back at Nora. “No, I made a promise. But I’ll leave my information.”

She handed him a Post-it note and a pen. He wrote down the information, then handed it to her. “Does he have a name?”

“Yeah. It’s Caspian.”

Cool name.

“Okay, Caspian, let’s go home.”

Caspian thumped his tail and got up, leaning into Shep.

He couldn’t help but smile. Okay, yes, maybe he was in a different place. Temporarily.

They got into the car, and he made a stop at a pet store, loading up on food, a collar and a leash, bowls, a tug toy, and a plush bed, even a couple dog cookies.

Set him back a crisp three hundred smackers. But Caspian happily gnawed on the bone in the back seat as they returned to his townhome, the sun dropping into the sea to the west, behind the ragged mountains. It was nearly dark by the time he turned onto his street, despite the before-dinner hour.

He’d fry up a steak and share it with Casp, and . . . Oh brother, maybe they were made for each other. Two lost, sad bachelors without their people.

The driveway lights didn’t flicker on as he drove into the darkness of his double garage. Weird. But he opened his car door, then the back door, and Caspian jumped out.

He dropped the dog’s leash as he opened up the back end, shouldering the food bag, grabbing the other loot.

Caspian stood by the front of the car, whining.

“I know you’re hungry. Everything is going to be fine.” And somehow he sort of felt it—the sense that things would be . . . maybe not fine, but . . . better than yesterday.

Today he didn’t plan on sitting at his counter in the dark, staring at his cold cocoa, trying just to breathe.

He headed toward the garage door, where Caspian was still whining, although only now did he notice that the dog stood staring away from the door, at the car.

“What? Did we leave something behind? I got your cookie, buddy.”

He set the food bag down on the step and reached for the doorknob.

Caspian growled.

He turned and spotted the dog in the wan light, his fangs pulled back, snarling?—

What?

Then spray—it hit the dog’s face. He yelped, and Shep dropped the shopping bags as a man emerged from the darkness.

The spray hit him too, full in the face. He shouted, hands over his face.

A push, a trip, and he went down. He barely got his hands in front of him before he hit the floor.

Definitely didn’t get his hand underneath the arm that viced his neck or the other that tightened behind it. He struggled, his eyes burning, his shouts cut short?—

And then he went from sorta bad to wretched as darkness closed around him to the sound of Caspian crying.

* * *

It simply looked too suspicious for her to show up for her flight carrying only a toothbrush. London rolled a black sweatshirt, a pair of socks, extra underwear, a few more toiletries, and some leggings into a ball, securing the extra passports and cash inside and putting it all into her go-bag. The sum total of her life, which she’d grabbed from her house the day she’d walked away from the life she loved.

The life she wanted.

She opened the British passport, the edges frayed, a few stamps inside, and stared at the picture. A much younger version of herself, although she still had two years on the passport before it expired. And a name she’d tucked away, hoping to never use it again.

Laney Steele.

Always better to hold on to a piece of truth, something that she could remember.

But Laney was dead, or was trying to be, so she shoved that into her backpack bundle and pulled out a different version, the one she’d used to travel to the United States a year ago, issued by the United States.

This passport read Delaney Brooks . Her given name. Maybe it was time to return to herself, the beginning.

She tucked that into her crossbody bag.

Outside her second-story bedroom—an Airbnb condo rental—the sun had just started to rise, gilding the sound with gold, a frost covering the bare red alder trees in the yard. She’d liked this place—reminded her a bit of the rental cottage that she’d shared with Boo. Although it didn’t have Boo’s company, didn’t have someone to talk to at the end of the day to make her feel less alone, more like a woman with a future.

She’d liked that woman.

Her phone buzzed on the bed and she picked it up. Ziggy, texting her.

Ziggy

Please tell me you’re leaving.

She sighed.

London

Yes. Heading south. Going to buy a boat.

It felt like the safest idea—get lost in the blue, keep the Petrovs off her tail.

Ziggy

You sure you don’t want to come back?

The text blinked a moment, and she stared at it. No . Because if she couldn’t have the Air One team, she didn’t want . . . well, maybe the Black Swans had been a family of sorts. But clearly, family cost her. So?—

London

No.

A moment, then?—

Ziggy

Text me when you land.

Whatever . She set the phone down, headed to the bathroom, pulled her hair back, worked on a stocking cap—it had a tiny hole in the back for her ponytail—then grabbed her toothbrush and added it to her crossbody bag.

She felt like the female, real-life version of Reacher.

Not how she’d hoped this restart might end. Wow, she was tired of dying, resurrecting as a new version of herself.

Too many versions.

Especially since this one had in it everything she’d . . .

Well, no use wishing for the happy ending that’d probably never belonged to her. She’d made her choices.

Picking up her phone, she added it to her crossbody bag, then grabbed her backpack and headed out to her Bronco. She’d already vacuumed out the inside, hopefully scrubbing it clean of any DNA, but she’d give it another once-over at the airport, then ditch it.

She absolutely would not drive by his house on her way to the airport. Not only was it in the opposite direction—so that helped—but she’d said her goodbyes.

Said. Her. Goodbyes .

Her throat thickened as she pulled out of the driveway of the condo unit.

Her flight left in three hours.

A layer of ice skimmed the road, the traffic slow as she edged out onto Hickel Parkway, toward the Anchorage International Airport.

Somewhere ahead, in the distance, a low siren whined, although as she looked into her rearview mirror, she didn’t see police or an ambulance.

Ahead of her, the mountainscape to the north rose brilliant white, the sun glistening on the peaks. Her chest tightened. She’d miss this—the view, the rugged allure of the last frontier, the freedom.

The team.

She’d miss the smell of the black spruce and Siberian fir trees, the gorgeous sweep of the golden yellows of the poplar and paper birch against the deep-green conifers of the foothills, the contrast of the deep blue against the white granite peaks. The crisp breeze off the sound, and the deep indigo of the water in summer. Yes, Switzerland had its alpine beauty, but nothing like the sea-and-peak contrast of Alaska.

She could have lived here forever.

Okay, breathe. Calm down . She’d said goodbye before . . .

The whining continued, and as it persisted . . . Wait . It came from her crossbody bag. She turned off the highway and pulled into a Starbucks. Unzipping her bag, she pulled out her phone.

A missed call from Ziggy, but she’d ignore it. Probably just hounding her to get on the plane.

The surveillance app popped up, already open, and she studied the four screens—two outside cameras, two inside cameras. No movement inside—it looked like Shep had left for the day. But on the deck, the dog lay outside the sliding glass door.

Whining.

Right—the siren. She opened the window. The dog seemed distressed, its face matted, its eyes watery. It kept wiping a paw over its snout.

She flicked to the inside of the house. Strange for Shep to leave the dog outside, especially in pain.

The house was quiet.

He could be on a callout . . .

Aw. Something buzzed inside her. But if she circled back, she might miss her flight.

As if that mattered.

She turned her Bronco around, got on Highway 1 and took it south, the phone propped on the dash.

The dog sat up once, barked, as if upping his game, but Shep didn’t let it in.

She turned onto his road and gave the townhome a drive-by. The garage door was closed, the place quiet save for the suffering dog on the deck.

The buzzing inside her deepened. Fine. She’d just pull in.

Getting out in the driveway, she grabbed her bag of beef jerky, then rounded the house to the side deck. The dog sat up, whined, and she held out the jerky.

“Hey there, buddy. What’s the deal?”

His tail thumped, and she came closer, holding out the treat. The dog sniffed, then gently took it from her fingers. She crouched and examined his eyes as he gnawed at the jerky.

Reddened, the area around his snout matted. And a capsaicin smell—not unlike pepper spray—emanated from him.

He’d been maced. Or maybe bear-sprayed. She ran a hand over his head. “Poor guy.”

No way Shep had done this. Which meant . . . “Stay put, big guy.” She left him another piece of jerky, then returned to the garage, found the entry box, and keyed in the code.

The garage door opened.

Shep’s car sat in the middle of the two-stall space. She walked inside and noted that the light hadn’t flickered on.

A bag of dog food sat by the inside door beside bags of pet supplies. Huh.

She tried the inside door—unlocked—and, okay, here went nothing—she let herself in.

If he was here—in the shower or something—she was about to blow apart his world. But she’d considered it yesterday, and . . .

Oh boy .

But she refrained from calling out his name, just in case he was home and might suffer some sort of heart attack at seeing her. As she climbed the stairs to the main floor, however, the place seemed eerily vacant. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet rumble of the furnace.

The sink was dry, so he hadn’t made coffee.

She unlocked the sliding door and let the dog inside. “Let’s get those eyes cleaned.” Finding a cloth, she wet it, then sat on the floor and washed the dog’s eyes. “What happened here, bud?”

The dog’s tail thumped on the floor.

Shep had evidently decided to keep him, which meant that he wouldn’t have left him alone outside, even during a callout.

And his car was here. But if the Air One team had spun up, Oaken Fox might have joined them, picking up Shep on his way into Anchorage.

The silence jammed inside her, however, along with the slow tightening of her gut.

She got up, retrieved the bag of dog food and the shopping bags, then opened the food and filled one of the new bowls with breakfast, another with water. The dog wolfed it down as she went upstairs just to make sure Shep wasn’t . . . what—dead on his bathroom floor?

Maybe, because she took a deep breath as she opened the door, and blew it out when she found the room empty.

She returned to his bedroom and stopped at the picture on his bedside. He must have pulled it from his phone, because it seemed like a selfie—her and Shep last year, skiing one of the big bowls of Alyeska, grinning into the camera.

Not a hint of trouble, of fear, of foreboding in her smile.

The doorbell rang.

She jerked, then headed to the upstairs window and peered out. A dark-haired woman stood on the stoop, wearing Ugg slippers and a flannel overshirt, her head bare, hands in her pockets.

Probably not an assassin. Still, London debated, then headed downstairs to open the door. Because her car sat in the driveway, and if she didn’t answer, maybe that would lead to more doorbell ringing and maybe even an uptick in concern. Could end with police on the doorstep—and maybe that was her worst-case-scenario tendency kicking in, but it had kept her alive for five years, so . . .

She opened the door. The woman had turned away, staring out into the day, and now whirled around. Petite, with Filipino features and a warm smile that dimmed a little and turned into a frown as she stared at London. “Oh, hi. Um, is Shep here?”

And London didn’t know why the sight of her put a prick in her side. “No.”

“Oh. Okay, um—I’m his neighbor—” She pointed to the townhome next door, deck side. “I noticed a dog on his deck and wanted to come over and see if he was okay.”

“The dog, or Shep?”

She frowned. “Shep. Because I’ve lived here for six months, and I don’t remember him having a dog, but . . . anyway, I’m Jasmine.” She held out her hand. “And you’re the girlfriend.”

London’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I’ve seen you here a few times—although I thought you had an orange Subaru.”

“It was . . . in an accident.” But, really? Who knew their neighbor that well?

“Our decks face each other, and a few times we shared conversation while we drank coffee. He never called you his girlfriend, but . . . you’re on his rescue team, right?” She gave a wry smile. “He has a photo of the team in his great room.”

Right. A team shot taken by Moose a year ago after a callout. One that she’d made him promise not to put on the website.

“Okay, well, I just wanted to see if Shep was okay. He’s such a nice guy—fixed my faucet once when it leaked. Oh, good, you brought the dog in.”

She leaned in. The dog had gotten up, walked across the room. Jasmine edged toward him, and what was London supposed to do? Hip-check her out the door, shut it, and run?

“Would you like to come in?” But the question was moot because Jasmine was already inside and crouching in front of the dog.

“Oh, what a sweet dog. What’s his name?”

Oh, um . . . “Lewie.”

“Hey, Lewie,” Jasmine said, and the dog’s tail wagged, and he lay down, letting her pet him. So, not a watchdog.

“You’re not in the reality show.”

Right. That stupid show . Thankfully, Moose had kept his word and forbidden the producers from broadcasting her picture across the universe.

“They cut out all my scenes. It was really about Oaken Fox anyway.”

Jasmine stood up. “Have you been on the team long?”

“Just a year.”

Jasmine frowned. “For some reason I thought Shep said you were old friends.”

How much had he told this woman about them? Sheesh —he knew her past, or at least enough to keep her secret.

Although, maybe that had been his way of . . . what? Protecting her? Always better to hold on to a piece of truth. “Yeah. We knew each other as kids—our extended families lived in the same town. We met when we were both visiting and went to the same summer camp.”

So long ago she should have forgotten that. Except Shep Watson had always been a little hard to forget. And the world was so terribly small. They’d met again in, of all places, an avalanche in Switzerland. “I thought that was you—and couldn’t help but follow you down . . .” His words, spoken in the darkness of their prison, trying to keep them both awake as hypothermia set in.

The beginning of the death of Laney Steele.

“And then you ended up here,” Jasmine said. The dog had rolled over and given up all dignity by exposing its underbelly, its tongue hanging out of its mouth. Jasmine scratched his belly with both hands.

“Shep reached out—I was working overseas and needed a change,” London said. Again, true, but oh, such a skim over the top. But she didn’t owe Jasmine any information.

Jasmine got up. “Do you know when he’ll be back? I actually was hoping that he’d come over and help me hang my new television set.”

Right.

And now she got it—the probe. The girlfriend question. The dig into her background. Jasmine had her sights on Shep.

The prick in her side deepened, cut into her heart. But what right did she have to hold on to him? This Jasmine woman was . . . nice. The kind of nice woman that Shep deserved. “I don’t know. But maybe . . . leave him a note?”

After all, London could hardly deliver that information. And it occurred to her then that maybe he was out running. He usually exercised in the weight room at the Tooth. So yeah, she needed to skedaddle.

“Oh, good idea, thanks.”

London walked over to the kitchen, pulled out a drawer—she’d seen him pull pens and Post-its from it—and found paper and a pen.

Turned.

Jasmine had picked up an envelope from the island. “Who is Ziggy?”

London froze.

Jasmine handed her the envelope. Handwriting, in crisp, European-style script, on the back. Ziggy will know where to find me. Get the card. Can’t wait to see you. T.

London stared at it. Managed to keep her hand from shaking.

No. No . . . But her insides curdled as she reread the message even as Jasmine scribbled out a note to Shep.

This couldn’t be right?—

“You okay?”

London looked up.

“You look like . . . okay, I know this sounds weird, but like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh, um . . .” Yes, most definitely a ghost . “No. I just realized that I’m late for a birthday party.”

As in her own. The rebirth of Laney Steele. “I’m meeting Shep there, and I totally forgot.”

Jasmine’s smile tightened. “Right.”

And then . . . “Um, do you have . . . I mean . . . I’m not sure when we’ll be back.” She glanced at the dog. “Do you think?—”

“You want me to check in on Lewie?”

“I—”

“I have the code. I just didn’t use it. But sure.” She patted the dog’s head. “I’m so glad that Shep has a friend. I get a little worried about him—especially lately.” She looked up. “He’s seemed pretty down. I thought you two had broken up.”

I bet you did.

And London didn’t know why—because really, she had no business saying it, but she couldn’t help the words. “No. Shep and I are soulmates. Always have been, always will be.”

Because it was always better to hold on to a piece of truth.

She let Jasmine out, then locked the door and pulled out her phone.

Her voice shook just a little as Ziggy answered.

“Yes,” Ziggy said without greeting, blowing apart London’s world. “Tomas is alive. And he has Shep. And if you want him back, you’ll need to break into Pike’s office and get that card key.”

She closed her eyes. So much for saying goodbye to Laney Steele.