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Chapter One

Nora

The farther I drive into Devil’s Peak, the narrower the roads get.

Pine trees crowd both sides of the highway, tall and endless, their branches cutting across the fading spring light like claws. Snow still clings to the higher ridges of the mountain even though the valley below is muddy and green, and every few miles I pass another handmade sign for the Spring Rescue Festival nailed to telephone poles.

Fish Fry Tonight

Bachelorette Auction Saturday

DEVIL’S PEAK SEARCH & RESCUE FUNDRAISER

Very charming.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and glance at the GPS again even though I already know there’s barely any signal left. Typical. Of course the town I’m investigating for corruption and missing hikers is buried in the mountains like the beginning of a true crime documentary.

The deeper I go, the more exhausted I feel. Not physically. I can drive for hours without blinking. It’s the other kind of tired, the kind that settles into your bones after years of watching your back and pretending stress doesn’t get to you.

Seattle nearly ate me alive the last few months.

The fraud story blew up bigger than anyone expected. Three arrests. One city council resignation. Endless media coverage. Endless threats afterward.

You should watch your back.

You don’t know who you’re messing with.

Pretty girls disappear every day.

I got good at pretending those messages didn’t bother me.

My father practically trained me for it. Growing up with him meant learning early that weakness was something people used against you. Crying annoyed him. Fear disgusted him. Vulnerability was just another word for stupidity.

So I adapted.

Smile. Deflect. Stay sharp.

Never let anyone see the hit land.

Unfortunately for me, Devil’s Peak feels like the kind of place where people notice everything anyway.

The town finally appears around the bend of the mountain about twenty minutes later, tucked between thick forest and rocky cliffs like it’s hiding from the rest of the world. The main street is crowded with trucks, tourists, and locals setting up festival booths beneath strings of lights stretched overhead.

Mountain men everywhere.

Flannel. Boots. Beards.

A woman carrying a tray of pies walks across the street while two men unload kegs outside a bar called The Devil’s Brew. Somewhere nearby, live country music drifts through the air.

Everyone looks like they belong here.

I don’t.

The realization hits immediately.

I’m too polished. Too city. Too tense.

And judging by the looks I get when I climb out of my Jeep, everyone else notices it too.