Page 38 of Wild Sanctuary

And a stubborn feeling in my gut that these threads connect somehow. If only I can find it…

My laptop pings with an email from Glen, my editor at Rocky Mountain Magazine, and I click on it immediately.

SENDER: Glen Calloway [email protected]

RECIPIENT: Daisy Monroe [email protected]

RE: Glacier Ridge + other

How are the interviews going? June issue waits for no one. Send me what you’ve got when you’re ready.

Re: the other thing, I called in a favor at the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Office. They’ll pull records if you can give them something concrete. Names, dates, specifics. Patterns aren’t enough. Get me the ranching piece on deadline and the staff job is yours.

Glen’s been in my corner since my first internship—the kind of editor who takes a chance on hungry freelancers and remembers what it’s like to chase a story that matters. When I told him about Dad’s death and the fifty thousand dollars and the patterns I was finding, he didn’t tell me I was chasing ghosts. He told me to go to Montana.

I haven’t given him anything concrete yet. Just patterns and gut feelings. But Glen’s right. I need a thread. One name, one connection, one piece of evidence that turns coincidence into story.

I type a quick reply.

SENDER: Daisy Monroe [email protected]

RECIPIENT: Glen Calloway [email protected]

RE: Glacier Ridge + other

Interviews going well. Feature is shaping up. Nothing concrete on the other thing yet, but I’m getting closer. Will send pages by end of week.

Short, vague, and optimistic. The freelancer’s holy trinity.

I’m neck deep in county records when my phone begins to buzz.

Felix.

I stare at the incoming video call for a moment as a weight settles on my shoulders. I haven’t responded to his last three texts, and with the promotion up in the air, I don’t want to do anything that could rock the boat.

Like continuing to dodge him.

I answer the video call and prop my phone against my coffee cup. “Hey.”

“There she is.” Felix’s face fills the screen, all sharp jawline and perfect hair. His voice is on. The one he uses in client meetings. “Starting to think you forgot about me, babe.”

I let the babe go because picking at it means an argument, and an argument on this side of the article means no shot at the staff job.

“Sorry. It’s been busy here.”

“I know. Your article.” He says it the way he always does. Like it’s a hobby I’ll grow out of eventually. “When are you coming home?”

“A few more weeks, I guess.”

He winces theatrically. “Figured. Listen, that’s actually why I’m calling.”

Here it comes.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the past two weeks. About us.” He leans closer to the camera, softening his voice into the version I used to fall for. “About how good we were together.”

About how good we looked together, because you’ve never seen the difference.

“We’re good as friends, Felix⁠—”