He looked at the ceiling beams.
“Thinking about Sara.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
He shifted closer.
“Tomorrow we start the hunt.”
“We will.”
“She’s still our priority.”
“Always.”
He brushed his mouth against hers again — slower now.
“I’m not sorry either,” he said.
Inside, something had changed.
His hand stayed over that scar long after she fell asleep, as if he’d already decided it mattered.
22
Sheriff Burke Scott
The radio crackled to life just after dawn. Static, then Scout’s voice—rough but steady—cut through.
“We’re good, Burke. Cabin held.”
Burke rubbed a hand over his face.
“Copy that. Sit tight. I’ll be up in a couple hours.”
Snow spat sideways across the ridges. He stood outside the station, in Carhartt coveralls and boots, coffee cooling in his hand, eyes on the thinning pale line of the mountains. Roads were useless—ice, drifts, downed limbs everywhere. Snowmobiles were the only option.
The chopper came in low from Asheville, rotor wash hammering the back lot. Two men dropped out as soon as the skids kissed asphalt—Kyle Denton and Alan McHan. SBI.
Burke didn’t bother with a handshake.
“You’re late.”
“HQ sent us the minute they lost contact with Quinn,” Dentonsaid, breath fogging. “We were told she’s holed up somewhere with one of your men.”
“She is,” Burke said. “Scout Wilson. They’re fine.”
Denton nodded stiffly.
“We’ll take it from here.”
“Yeah?” Burke jerked his thumb toward the alley. “Truck’s out back. You boys can ride with me.”
Ten minutes later, Burke’s F-250 was grinding up the ridge road, chains biting into ice. The trailer behind them rattled, three snowmobiles ratcheted down and waiting. Denton and McHan rode in tight-lipped silence, watching the snow stack higher against the guardrail.
When the drifts finally swallowed the asphalt, Burke killed the engine.
“We ride from here,” he said, swinging down.
