I'd heard it. I'd registered it. It had mattered.
The question I couldn't answer from this couch, in this quiet apartment, alone—was whether past tense was the same as permanent.
I didn't think he'd leave.
I was afraid of being the kind of person who didn't think someone would leave.
Those were two different problems and they lived in two different parts of me. They weren't going to resolve themselves tonight, and I knew that, so I stopped trying to force them and just let the night be what it was—the baseboard heat clicking on, the dog barking twice at nine o'clock on schedule, the wind under the door. All the known sounds of a life I'd built in a place I understood.
He was out there somewhere in the dark. Ridgeview Lodge, probably, the room Theo kept quiet for him. I thought about what he was doing and then stopped thinking about it because that way led to picking up my phone. I wasn't going to pick up my phone.
Tomorrow, I would figure out what I thought.
Tonight, I let myself not know, which was the hardest thing I'd done since standing on a gravel bar that morning and telling my father I'd made my choice.
Maybe it was still the same choice.
10
HALE
Rowan had coffee ready when I showed up at 6:30, just like he said he would.
His office at PeakBound was small, tucked behind the gear wall. Maps pinned everywhere, photos of past trips filling the space the maps didn’t cover. He was behind the desk, boots up, mug in hand. He looked like a man used to waiting—and perfectly comfortable doing it.
"Permanent," I said, before he could say anything.
"Full partner or guide?"
"Guide for now. We can talk about the rest later."
He nodded like that was the right answer and pulled a folder from the desk drawer and slid it across to me. I looked at the top page. A contract, already drafted, with my name on it.
"You had this ready," I said.
"I had it ready three weeks ago." He picked up his coffee. "You needed to get there yourself. Couldn't push you."
"You could have mentioned it."
"Wouldn't have meant the same thing." He looked at me over the rim of his mug with the calm of a man who'd spent a decadeguiding people through terrain that scared them. "Sign it when you're ready. No rush."
I signed it right there and slid it back. He tucked it in the folder without ceremony, the way it deserved.
My lawyer called at 8:15, while I was driving back down the valley road. I pulled over and took it.
The short version was this. The organization had been fracturing for a couple of months—longer than I'd known. Two principals had already been interviewed by federal investigators. A third had retained separate counsel, which meant the alliance was gone and everyone was protecting themselves now.
My lawyer's read was that it resolved inside of a year, probably less, and that my role in it was to do nothing—sit still, don't engage, let them take each other apart. I was a witness at most and a minor one. The pressure on me would evaporate on its own.
I sat with that for a moment after I hung up. Twelve years of work, and the end of it was going to happen without me having to do anything at all. There was something almost funny about that. I'd spent so long bracing for impact, and the impact turned out to be someone else's problem.
I drove to the sheriff's office.
Cal was at his desk, which I'd expected. He looked up when I came in without surprise, which I'd also expected. He gestured at the chair across from him, and I sat.
"You're not here to update me on the investigation," he said.
"No," I said. "Though I can. My lawyer called this morning. It's moving toward resolution. I'm peripheral."
