HALE
I'd known who she was before she ever stepped into my stretch of river.
Hollow Peak didn't leave much room for anonymity. Three thousand people, give or take, and I'd spent three weeks figuring out how things worked without making it obvious I was working anything out.
You learn fast in places like this. What to say, what not to ask, when to keep your mouth shut and let people fill the silence for you.
Most of them will, if you give it time.
Mae Whitlock had been the first to prove that. Third time I walked into the Switchback, she'd already decided I was worth briefing, whether I wanted it or not. Didn't ask permission. Didn't lower her voice. Just set my coffee down in front of me and started talking like we were picking up a conversation we'd already had.
“Sheriff's daughter,” Mae said. “Grew up on the river. Knows everyone.”
That had been enough to tell me more than she probably intended.
In a town like this, that kind of background meant something. It meant roots that ran deep. It meant people watched out for you, and you watched back. It meant if she stepped into a room—or onto a riverbank—she wasn't just another person passing through. She belonged there.
Which also meant she'd notice someone who didn't.
I'd made it three weeks without drawing much attention. In, out. Coffee, cash, no conversation. Same routine every morning. Same seat if it was open. Eyes up just long enough to track who came and went, then back to the window like I had somewhere else to be.
People got used to you faster that way.
Or they got bored.
Either worked.
Still, I'd clocked Mia early on. Hard not to. She moved like she had a reason to be wherever she was, like she wasn't second-guessing a single step. Didn't hover. Didn't hesitate. The place fit her, and she knew it.
I'd kept my distance anyway. That seemed like the smarter call.
But knowing who she was and seeing her step into the river I'd been working all week were two different things. Up until then, she'd been part of the background—someone to note, not engage.
That changed the second her boots hit the water.
She didn't test it like most people did, easing in, checking footing, looking for the safest line. She went straight in, like she already knew where the rocks were, where the current would push, where it would let up.
I'd noted it and moved on.
What I hadn’t figured out was what to do with the way she looked at me. Not sizing me up. Not already deciding what storyshe’d tell later. Just…curious. Like whatever she found, she’d handle it.
I'd noticed. I simply hadn't let myself do much with it.
Then she waded into my stretch at 5:30 in the morning, told me I was mending wrong, showed me how to fix it, handed me a fish, and left.
She was right about the mend, which didn't help.
I stood in the current after she left and ran through the reasons this was a bad idea. Four months ago, I'd walked away from twelve years of contracted security work because my employer had asked me to look the other way on something that would have gotten civilians killed. I'd said no and walked, and now I was a loose end they couldn't do anything about legally but hadn't decided to leave alone.
New phone every six weeks. Three addresses in four months. I ended up in Hollow Peak because Rowan Pike needed a guide and didn’t ask questions—and because a valley this remote makes it easy to leave when you need to.
Staying somewhere for a woman was a different category of problem. Especially when the woman was the sheriff's daughter.
I broke down my rod and drove back to the lodge.
Theo Mallory was at the front desk, which was where he was most mornings. He looked up when I came through.
"Early," he said.
