“We need to call Walk.”
CHAPTER 26
BLAKE
If this is what it’s like to be a detective, I’m sure glad I chose art. I want to run my head through the wall.
My room at Moose Gap Lodge isn’t much bigger than a shoebox. The knotty pine paneling covering the walls gives the space a rustic charm that would be cozy if I weren't slowly losing my mind. A double-sized bed occupies most of the room, leaving just enough space for a small desk, a dresser, and a pair of nightstands.
Snow clings to the outside of the window, shading the world beyond the glass a mixture of white and gray. The heater beneath the window rattles every few minutes, struggling to keep up with the freezing Wyoming winter.
When I first checked into Moose Gap Lodge, the room looked like another ordinary motel room.
My clothes were neatly placed in the closet and dresser. My toiletries were organized in the bathroom.
Not so much anymore.
Sketchbooks and charcoal pencils litter the desk. Evidence photos blanket the bed. Sticky notes occupy every available surface. Empty coffee cups crowd the nightstands, plus theempty mug that was filled with nasty motel coffee. I downed it like a shot of bourbon.
I’m pretty sure I’ve consumed enough caffeine this week to kill a horse.
The wall opposite the bed has disappeared beneath a collage of photographs, timelines, sketches, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes. I even have colored string connecting victims to locations, suspects to evidence, and theories to dead ends.
The only untouched part of the room belongs to Bear, who has claimed the patch of carpet directly in front of the rattling heater. He lies there wrapped in a blanket like a puppy burrito.
Most people would walk in and probably assume a conspiracy theorist had taken up residence. They’d see trash, chaos, and obsession. All that’s missing is the string to connect the thumbtacks.
I see a pattern trying to emerge.
Emphasis ontrying.
It feels like a painting that isn’t quite done. A shadow too dark or a highlight too bright. The wall gives me the same feeling.
The answer is here. I know it is.
The problem is that I’ve been staring at this wall for so long that everything is starting to blur together.
There’s Derek Holt. He was setting fires around town—a fact that I’m not supposed to know. I may have taken a peek at the open file on Ridge’s desk this week while I was helping with another sketch.
Then there’s Reverend Ricks. I still don’t know what he was doing that got him on The Debt Collector’s radar.
I’m still wondering how the Evergreen Gazette figured out the motive.
Another item on the investigation list.
And the big question: How the hell does this connect to my stalker?
He lured me to the trailer park. Maybe he’s trying to tell me something, or maybe he’s trying to set me up.
Hopefully, he doesn’t figure out that I told Levi, Santiago, and Walker that he’s the reason I’m here.
As if the three of them weren’t already overprotective.
I think I’m going to have a heart attack just trying to figure this out.
A sharp knock at the door pulls me from my fun game of How-Long-Will-It-Take-Blake-To-Scream-And-Run-Away.
The notes slip from my fingers and scatter across the floor.
