Her jaw works. “What about Mason, Jesse, and Eli?”
“Your call. I’ll back whichever way you decide. But we should wait until we know more.”
She nods. “Thank you.”
Two words, and I’ll carry them with me like her kiss. “You’re welcome. I’ll be back at one.”
I drive back to the office. Pull up the BOLO system. Put the Oregon plate in and flag it for sighting only, no stop, do not approach. Call the county lieutenant I trained with and tell him I’m sitting on a federal warrant request and may need backup on a stop within forty-eight hours. He says he’ll have two units on standby. I thank him and hang up.
I look at Dale’s mug on the desk, but I don’t pick it up.
At one o’clock, I’m waiting in my truck. The cruiser is too recognizable. We go to her apartment, she packs a bag and grabs a few bartending books, and we’re in and out in twelve minutes. We drive to my cabin in silence.
“It’s bigger than I thought,” she says as we pull up.
“Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Jesse and some of the ridge guys helped build it.”
Inside, she walks through the house, then puts her bag in the second bedroom. I carry her books inside and set them on the table.
The doorbell rings.
I gesture Sophie toward the hallway. She moves without question.
I open the door with my off hand, right hand near my holster.
The porch is empty. A manila envelope sits on the welcome mat. No address. No return. Just my name in block letters.
I don’t pick it up. I close the door, pull on gloves from the boot tray, and open the door again. Then I lift the envelope by one corner.
Inside is a color photo. I set it on the kitchen counter.
Sophie takes a look, and her hands shake. “That’s my old bar. Where I worked on Capitol Hill.”
The shot was taken from a corner booth. Sophie behind the marble counter, pouring tequila, laughing with another bartender.
“How long ago?” I ask.
She studies the photo. “Those pendant lights are the newer ones. Installed after the shooting.”
“Sophie?” I ask.
“The police said that the bar was clean. That there was no reason for him to come back to the scene.” She exhales. “But he came back.”
I don’t touch her. Not yet. But I make a silent promise.
Volkov might’ve been one step ahead of her, but he’s not one step ahead of me.
five
. . .
Sophie
I standat Logan’s kitchen window. The river runs behind the tree line, streaming downhill as it has for centuries, long before any of the Wildes lived here. Logan sits at the kitchen table. He’s been quiet as if knowing I need time to process what today’s photo of me means.
Why me?
A chill prickles across my skin. The familiar urge to get moving strikes hard and fast. “Can we go somewhere? A drive even.”
