Savaged

The hardwood floor was cold beneath her feet as she padded to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and rinsing her face with cold water and then patting it dry with the towel hung on a hook by the sink. She took a few seconds to look at herself in the mirror, her chest still rising and falling too quickly with her increased heart rate.

Her brown hair lay matted around her face in sweaty tangles, any rat’s dream home, and there were dark smudges under her brown eyes, which were already too big in her face, making her look like a tired owl. Lovely. No amount of concealer would be enough today.

Coffee beckoned. A shower—and some cucumber slices on her eyes?—could wait. As she stood at her kitchen sink, the delicious scent of dark roast beginning to fill the room and clear her foggy brain, she stared out the window, going over everything that had happened two days before. She still couldn’t believe she’d been asked to help out with a murder investigation. Or more specifically, she’d been asked to drive an investigator around and guide him through some wilderness areas. But he’d asked her opinion on a few aspects of the case that he didn’t necessarily have to, and he’d listened to what she’d said and appreciated her input, and it’d made her feel . . . useful. Good.

She wondered if he’d share the things he ended up uncovering about Lucas, if there was anything to uncover at all. Which, there had to be. Right? The picture of Lucas in the holding cell, and then the way his eyes had caught hers right before he’d gotten into Deputy Brighton’s SUV, ran through her mind.

The machine beeped and she poured herself a cup of coffee, added a splash of milk, and took a grateful sip, as her mind moved again to the strange yet intriguing man. And that locket around his neck. Had she seen it before?

Her memories of her parents were clouded. She’d been so young when they’d died—only seven years old. But standing in her kitchen, the last of the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, as she sipped the life-giving brew, that darn necklace was niggling at her mind again. Or at least, something very much like it. Her mother had had something similar with . . . hearts maybe? Three hearts . . . the words were tickling at the edges of her mind. Something . . . entwined. She released a whoosh of breath, massaging her left temple. It was there but too far away to grasp, skating

just outside her memory, taunting her.

What if . . . she placed her empty mug in the sink and returned to her living/bedroom area, removing the box from the top of her closet shelf and sitting on the bed to open it. Her parents’ belongings—furniture and household items—had been put into a storage locker, which had gone delinquent thanks to an irresponsible “advocate” with a too-big case load, and subsequently been auctioned off. But Harper had a few photo albums and keepsakes that she’d been allowed to collect before being placed in her first foster home. Inside the box were not only photos, but a few cards, memories that she hadn’t looked through in a long time. She put the cards aside, not daring to peek inside. Today, seeing her parents’ handwriting felt like too much, and she couldn’t do it, not after the dream that had left her feeling so raw. What was it about someone’s handwriting that brought them back to life with a single glance? A blessing. And a curse.

She flipped through the two photo albums, one of her parents’ wedding, and another of her as a baby and toddler. She didn’t find anything in either one and so she put those aside, pulling out the loose photos and putting them into a pile. She began going through them one by one, interested only in the ones of her mother. There weren’t many. Most of the photos her parents had had were presumably in a digital format somewhere that she had no way to access.

She didn’t linger on their smiling faces, not today, attempting to keep her emotions as objective as possible. She would put her roaming thoughts to rest and let it go. Let her questions go. Let him go. Him . . . and the way he’d made her feel, feelings she didn’t dare dwell on too specifically. Him and his wild clothes and haunted eyes, the man who lived alone in the woods, and had looked around at the town like he’d never seen civilization before.

No, it was impossible really. The more she thought about it, the crazier it seemed. That man had nothing to do with her or her parents. She was grasping at straws. Her memory was faulty, full of holes and—

Three hearts entwined . . .

She sucked in a breath and dropped all but one photo, bringing it closer to see the locket hanging at the base of her mother’s throat.

Three hearts entwined in the middle.

It looked exactly like the one Lucas had been wearing.

**********

Dusk was already falling by the time Harper pulled herself together, showered, and threw on clothes. She’d skipped the cucumbers and the concealer, more pressing things on her mind than her dark, overtired eyes.

She pulled on her winter gear, including her waterproof snow boots. She might have to hike a bit in the snow, and she wanted to be prepared. Large flakes were falling steadily by the time she pulled off onto the road leading to Isaac Driscoll’s empty cabin. Isaac Driscoll’s empty, blood-stained cabin, Harper reminded herself. A shiver moved through her, and for the first time since she’d spotted the necklace in the photo of her dead mother, she second-guessed her decision to drive out there and confront Lucas.

She glanced at the shotgun in the backseat behind her, the weapon she carried when she took hunters out in the wild and what she’d placed in her truck before leaving. Instead of bringing her comfort, it only brought further uncertainty.

This is crazy. Temporary insanity.

She knew how to hunt and was a good shot, but she’d never been especially keen to do it. It always left her feeling kind of . . . sad. Her heart always ached when she saw the dead animal she’d killed staring unseeing at her with big, startled eyes. She never told anyone that—the quality wasn’t exactly a selling point for people looking for a competent guide to take them on their wilderness expeditions, but . . . she could admit it to herself.

The land south of Driscoll’s cabin was mostly flat, and she turned her truck in the direction of the three peaked mountains, the four-wheel drive making it easy to roll over the snow-covered ground. She drove around trees, her tires bumping over rocks and small hills that leveled out again.

How far had he said he lived from Driscoll? Ten thousand something steps? She removed her phone from her pocket, but there was no service. Darn. Agent Gallagher had been able to pull up an email though, and Dwayne had mentioned that Driscoll made a 9-1-1 call. Reception was probably spotty as it often was in the wilderness. She was pretty sure there was an old logging road with a dead end somewhere in the direction she was traveling. That open area where the trees had been removed might provide some service. But for now, Google wouldn’t be any help.

She thought she remembered that it took the average person about fifteen minutes to walk a mile. How many steps would you walk in fifteen minutes? About . . . two thousand? Maybe? If so, that meant . . . Lucas lived approximately five miles from Driscoll.

If her math was right, which was iffy at best. Also, she was headed from Driscoll’s toward the peaked mountains Lucas had mentioned to Dwayne, but there was no telling if his house was mostly a straight shot, or if he’d turned in a different direction at some point. She might drive her truck right into a lake.

I should turn back.

This was totally stupid anyway. Irrational, actually. It was just . . . it was just that she’d spent so many lonely years looking for her parents. She’d gone out over and over, day after day, from the break of dawn until night fell, and never come back with a thing. And then that necklace. And she had to know. Right then.

I can’t wait another second.

Her breath hitched when she spotted smoke rising into the deepening night sky, her heart lurching. She pressed her foot to the accelerator and the truck jerked forward, snow being sprayed to either side. It’s his cabin, she thought, her nerves zinging. It has to be.

Anticipation trumped her caution, and she pressed on the accelerator, driving through the small copse of trees in front of what she could now see was a log structure, not large, but larger than Driscoll’s place. Huh. If Driscoll had two places on his property, why would he choose the smaller of the two?