Page 65 of Only the Hunter

The cogwheel train climbs like it’s resisting us.

Steel teeth bite into the track, the car tilting as the forest closes in. Pines crowd the windows, branches heavy with snow, the lake shrinking below us until Geneva looks like something remembered rather than real.

Evie sits across from me, arms folded tight against her. She’s watching the landscape with the same intensity she brings to cross-examination—like if she studies it hard enough, it’ll confess. I’ve watched her work before—slipped into courtrooms and kept to the back. Never told her. She didn’t need the distraction and I didn’t need her to know. She’s an impressive litigator. I never left disappointed.

Hours pass.

Cell service drops, as expected. Quinn warned us.

When we disembark, the cold hits first—sharp, dry, altitude-bred. The platform is empty except for a single attendant in a heavy coat and a woman with a clipboard who looks briefly at us, then away.

I clock the crowd out of habit. No one on the train would have hurt us, but now I’m wondering who’s here.

We walk, boots crunching over compacted snow, breath fogging. There’s no sound beyond wind moving through trees. Traffic sounds are noticeably absent. The urban center is long gone.

A lone vehicle idles near the edge of the platform—a local driver, exactly where he said he’d be. Given there are no other cars waiting in a cab line, there’s no confusion he’s here for us.

We exchange greetings in French. He has the address, as we provided it when we made the reservation yesterday.

The road down from the station is narrow, half-cleared, winding along a ridge that drops away fast enough to kill you if you slip.

Evie scans the scene.

“This would be impossible on foot in bad weather,” she says under her breath.

“Yep.” What I don’t add is that that might be the point.

The facility appears without warning—low, angular buildings tucked into the hillside, stone and glass meant to disappear into the mountain. A small plaque near the drive indicates we’ve arrived—it’s the only signage. Satellite imagery would miss the sign.

This feels like the kind of place that doesn’t want to be seen, but I remind myself that shelters are built to aid, not to harm.

The front entrance is locked, accessible via access badge or code. A camera tracks our approach, silent but obvious.

All reasonable, but in a remote location such as this, arguably excessive.

Evie presses the call button and speaks in careful, stilted French. She introduces herself, using the NGO name Quinn flagged. French isn’t a language I’ve studied, but I intuit enough to understand when she asks to speak to someone in administration regarding a transferred client.

There’s a pause. Long enough for deliberation.

A voice responds through the speaker—female, tone neutral and clipped. Her French is fast. Evie keeps up at first, then glances at me, frustration in those eyes.

“She wants to know our appointment time,” Evie murmurs in English.

“We don’t have one.”

Evie exhales and switches back, explaining in what’s likely fumbled French. Repeating names. Dates. Using the translations she prepared ahead of time.

I catch the key words. Protection. Transfer.

Silence falls. Evie stares straight at the speaker.

I’m unsure what’s happened—why the silence, why the stillness.

The door unlocks with a muted click.

I breathe out the air I withheld.

She did it.