The page loaded—a nursing forum I’d joined years ago, but rarely visited, its interface unchanged since the last time I’d logged in. The thread was recent—posted three days ago, with no replies. The username was a random string of letters and numbers.
The message itself was brief:Trying to locate Jasper Arnold, neonatal nurse who worked at Omaha General until six months ago. Last known location Nebraska. Any information appreciated. Please message directly rather than replying here.
No name attached. No explanation of why they were looking. Just the bare fact of the search, hanging in digital space where anyone could see it.
I closed the tab and opened a new one, then searched my name plus “Omaha” and “nurse.” The results loaded—the same professional links, the same staff directory, but with a new entry: a Facebook group for Nebraska healthcare workers, where someone had posted the same request three days earlier.
Again, no name. No explanation. Just the pattern of someone moving through the internet the way a person moves through a building, checking rooms, opening doors, getting closer.
I tried again with different search terms—my name plus my hometown, my name plus my nursing school, my name plus phrases I’d used in professional contexts.
Each search returned the same pattern—recent activity across multiple platforms, all within the last week, all asking the same question in different words.
Someone was looking for me. Not just wondering where I’d gone or if I was okay, but actively searching, methodically working their way through every digital space where I might have left a trace.
I sat with the screen for a moment, my jaw set, my thumb pressed against the edge of the laptop casing. The bruise on my cheek throbbed in time with my pulse.
Across the room, Decker was in the armchair by the window with a paperback open, not looking up. His posture was relaxed—one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, shoulders loose, attention fully on the page in front of him. He hadn’t asked what I was doing or how long I’d need the laptop or whether I wanted privacy. He’d just handed it over and gone back to his book, creating a space where my business could remain my own.
I closed the laptop, the screen going dark with a soft click. I told myself it could be nothing—old activity, automated crawlers, any number of explanations that didn’t require the conclusion my gut was already drawing. The hospital checking references. A former colleague looking to reconnect. A patient’s family with follow-up questions.
All of them more likely than the alternative—that someone from Nebraska had decided I was worth tracking down, that the hatred that had driven me from my job and then from my hometown had followed me here.
I did not entirely believe that.
I set the laptop on the table and did not say anything. If Decker had questions about what I’d found or why I’d gone suddenly still, he kept them to himself. He just turned another page in his book, the soft rustle of paper the only sound in the quiet room.
Outside, the mountain was a darker shape against the night sky, its presence neither reassuring nor threatening—just there, enormous and indifferent, the same way it had been for thousands of years before I arrived and the same way it would be long after I was gone.
I sat at the table with my hands flat on its surface and made a decision: I would call my grandfather on Sunday likewe’d agreed. I would ask him, directly, if he’d heard anything—if anyone had been asking questions or showing unusual interest.
And then, depending on his answer, I would decide what to do next.
Chapter Five
~ Decker ~
The morning light hit the kitchen table at a shallow angle, turning the edges of the coffee mugs white where they caught the sun. I’d been up for forty minutes—coffee brewed, eggs scrambled, the house warming itself awake around me. I’d left the screen door open to let in the early air, and now it carried the smell of cut grass and the metallic scent of the coming rain.
Jasper came in at 6:45, his footsteps quiet in the hallway. He stopped in the doorway, eyes doing a quick scan of the room—a habit I recognized from my own training—before crossing to the counter and reaching for a mug.
He’d slept in his clothes again. His hair was damp at the edges, like he’d splashed water on his face but hadn’t wanted to use the shower. A night’s rest had done nothing for the bruise on his cheek—it had darkened overnight, spreading from his cheekbone toward his eye socket in a smear of purple that would take weeks to fade completely.
He poured his coffee with both hands on the pot, movements careful in a way they hadn’t been the night before. No sudden gestures, no reaching for anything without first checking its exact location, like he was trying to minimize his presence in the room.
I watched it all, reading the signs without letting my eyes linger. The man was physically present, but everything else about him had pulled back—voice pitched lower, responses coming a half-beat late, attention divided between whatever was in front of him and something playing behind his eyes.
He sat down at the table, keeping his distance without making it look deliberate, and reached for the plate of eggs I’d set out. “Thanks for making breakfast,” he said, the wordscoming out measured and careful, like he’d picked them from a list of phrases that were safe to use.
“Not a problem,” I said, keeping it simple. Whatever was going on behind those eyes would keep until he was ready to share it.
The screen door banged open, and Rawley stepped in, bringing with him a rush of cold air. He stopped in the doorway, boots on the mat, and looked at me.
“Fence line’s down on the west side,” he said, not wasting words on the preliminaries. “The posts by the creek. Burke’s already out there. I need you on it with him.”
I nodded, swallowing a last bite of eggs and pushing my plate away. “Be there in five.”
He nodded once and turned to go, then paused, looking at Jasper, who had gone perfectly still at the table. “Kitchen needs inventory,” Rawley said, his voice carrying the careful neutrality I recognized from missions where civilians had been involved. “Supplies are getting low. I could use someone to make a list.”
