Her face crumples. Just for a second. Then she straightens her spine and walks past me toward her truck.
"Rowan."
She stops but doesn't turn around.
"If Peterson finds something, it won't be because you missed it." I don't know if that's true. I'm saying it anyway. "Whatever happens, this isn't your fault."
"It is, though." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I should have known better. I should have stayed in my truck that first night and driven to the next county. I should have kept my distance, done my job, and left without ever knowing what it felt like to?—"
She doesn't finish. Just climbs into her truck and drives away.
I stand in the parking lot until the dust settles. Until the sound of her engine fades to nothing. Until I'm alone with the trees and the silence and the weight of everything I just lost.
My phone buzzes. Mama.
How did the audit go?
I stare at the message for a long time. Then I type back:
She's gone.
Oh honey. What happened?
I don't have an answer. Don't have words for any of it. So I pocket the phone and walk back to my truck.
The cabin's gonna feel empty tonight. Tomorrow, some stranger named Peterson is gonna tear through my records looking for blood. And Rowan Cafferty is driving back to a life that doesn't include me.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Until my hand aches and my eyes burn.
Three days. That's all we had.
It wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough.
And now it's over.
