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Lungs burn.
So much pain.
I glance to the stars for one final plea of mercy.
The world fades in and out like a fever dream.
The last few years of my life run through my memory in jags.
Each moment was a fatal mistake.
I clamp my hand over the top of his head and pluck the hood right off of him.
And then I see him for who he is.
His grip momentarily loosens as his eyes widen with surprise.
“It’s you.” I gasp just before he clamps over my neck with twice as much strength.
This time the world fades to black forever.
2
Special Agent Fallon Baxter
They say there’s no place like home, but what they don’t tell you is that sometimes, home is where your darkest nightmares are waiting to come to life.
In the case of my hometown, they already have.
I could have made the drive from Reno to Pine Ridge Falls blindfolded if I had to. I have a feeling no matter where I was in this great nation, my internal compass would always be set to home, and I would always be able to make my way there.
After all, I know the way to Hell. I’m headed there now.
As I steer my car around another winding curve, the familiar rugged peaks of the Rocky Mountains welcome me like a pair of open arms—like the old friends they are. It’s been two long years since I last drove these roads, two years since the chaos of my life made me swear off Pine Ridge Falls for good. Yet, here I am, heading back, drawn by both duty and desperation.
The little dusty gem of a town pops up abruptly, as it always does, tucked away in a valley that’s lush with evergreens in the shadow of the towering mountains.
My heart thumps unnaturally at the sight of the waterfall that stands at the helm of Pine Ridge Falls. Its water cascades down with a force that seems to shake the entire planet. It always does.
I roll down the window of my 4Runner and let in the fresh, misty air that carries the unmistakable scent of pine and wildflowers. It might be early summer, but there’s still snow on the ground in patches and the frozen breeze does its best to steal the warmth from my truck. Despite the fact, I take in a deep breath and the scent of Pine Ridge Falls brings back a flood of memories, some good, most painful.
The rolling hills, the sharp crags of the mountain, I can’t seem to drink them in fast enough as I navigate along the cobbled streets where most of the businesses are lined up like poorly performing fiscal soldiers.
I wouldn’t say time left Pine Ridge Falls behind. It has its fair share of technology, usually by way of a glowing screen tucked into the palm of every hand, but something about this place screams mid-twentieth-century time capsule.
I navigate the familiar streets, noting how little has changed. The same old wooden sign that reads Welcome to Pine Ridge Falls stands proudly at the town’s entrance. There’s a carving of a bear cub hinged over the top of it, looking just as adorable as I remember. The sign looks a bit more weathered but just as welcoming. The old grocery store zips by, and the bakery flashes by as well with its windows glowing warmly against the backdrop of the mountains. It’s comforting to see that some things remain constant.
A fancy new coffee shop greets me, then the laundromat, a bookstore, a candy shop—a real draw for tourists, but we don’t get many. And lastly, I see exactly what I came for.
My destination is just ahead—Bea’s Diner.
Bea as in Beatrice Baxter, my mother.
The sight of it squeezes my heart.
Mom’s diner is quaint with a slightly faded sign. The red checkered curtains in the window give it a homey appeal. There’s a smaller sign next to the door, promising of the best blueberry pancakes this side of the Rockies.
I press my lips together as I blink back tears. It looks exactly as I remember. Exactly how I remembered it that night.
