He tried the radio. Nothing but static.
“This cabin’s stood through plenty of storms,” he said. “We’ll ride this one out too.”
Tessa nodded, pulling the blanket tighter. Outside, the blizzard pressed hard against the glass. Inside, only the fire moved.
18
Sheriff Burke Scott — City Limits Café
The snow had thickened to a white curtain by the time Burke’s cruiser rolled down Main Street. Headlights cut tunnels through the storm. At the far end, City Limits Café blazed like a hearth—yellow light, neon coffee cup flickering, a line of trucks with snow covering the windshields.
Inside, heat and noise rolled over him, the air thick with coffee and chili. Nearly every table was full—firefighters, deputies, volunteers—cold, hands wrapped around mugs. Behind the counter, Willow poured coffee without pause.
Burke stepped up to the counter and tipped his hat back, catching Ned’s eye. The old man sat near the end with his weather radio humming static beside a half-eaten piece of pie.
“Still comin’ down up there?” Burke asked.
Ned turned the volume down.
“Ain’t lettin’ up till tomorrow night. Maybe longer if that front stalls like they say.”
Burke nodded. He’d already known it, but hearing it out loudsealed it. The ridge was lost to whiteout, wind screaming through the hollers. Scout’s last transmission—Copy. Taking cover in the Grady cabin—still echoed in his head.
He’d ordered it. Slick as glass.
He climbed onto the low riser near the front window, where the chalkboard listed: SOUP OF THE DAY: Vegetable Beef.
Conversations dimmed, the crowd turning toward him.
“Alright, listen up.” His voice carried over the hum of the heater. “We’ve been at this search for three days, and I know you’re all bone-tired. Since the night Sara vanished, we’ve covered every trail, every pull-off, every hollow we can reach. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done out there. But the weather’s changed things. The ridge is iced over, wind’s gusting past forty. It’s not safe to keep teams in those woods.”
A few heads dropped. Others turned toward the window where the snow pressed white against the glass. Burke let the pause hang long enough.
“This afternoon, Tom Grady found something at his tree stand. A small field notebook. Sara Parker’s handwriting.”
Gasps rippled—soft, hopeful. Someone whispered, “Thank God.” A chair scraped as a firefighter leaned forward, like he’d been punched upright by the news.
“She wrote it after she was taken. It’s her handwriting. And she’s alive.”
He let that settle. “She wants us to keep looking.”
Relief moved through the room—quiet, cautious.
“But listen,” Burke added, voice tightening. “The storm changed things. Scout and Agent Quinn were on the ridge when it turned. Visibility’s gone. I ordered them to take cover in the Grady cabin.”
The relief thinned.
Tom Grady raised a hand from the back.
“Sheriff—there’s plenty in the cabin. Food, water, firewood for a week. We left it stocked this morning.”
Burke nodded once.
“Good. That’s what’s keeping them safe tonight.”
Across the counter, Willow poured one more cup and slid it toward him.
“You did right, Sheriff. Storm like this, mountain’ll still be there tomorrow.”
