she wondered about all the crime shows she’d ever watched on TV. Was she contaminating the room, with her fingerprints or hair, just by being here? Then again what she needed were facts about what happened if she wanted to get the sheriff to look into Axl’s death.
Setting aside her suitcase, she left the door slightly ajar. The curtains had been drawn and only a sliver of light shone through the place where the seams did not meet. In the dim light, she scanned the nondescript hotel room. A bureau with a TV stood against one wall. A mirror hung just to the left. A desk was next to the bureau. A chair and small table took up a corner.
There were also two beds. Both were made, but one had an opened suitcase and a shaving kit piled on it, but no camera. She riffled through the suitcase and patted down the pile of his clothes. In the pocket of a fleece jacket, she found Axl’s cell phone.
Alarm bells began ringing in her mind. Like the camera, Axl was never without his phone. Everly picked it up and pressed the home button. At one time her thumbprint had been programmed into the phone. But was it still?
Holding her breath, she waited.
The home screen appeared. She scrolled through the texts—all from his work. There were no voice mails. She checked his calendar...and found one entry.
9:00 p.m. March 21. Meet at bar.
So, he had gone to the bar to meet someone. But who? More than that, was the sheriff right? Had her brother been drunk and foolish?
Everly heard the whisper of a sound and turned. As her gaze passed over the mirror, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy form. Blood froze in her veins and she began to scream. The sound died in her throat as a sharp pain filled her skull. Everly stumbled, her legs no longer able to hold her upright.
And then she pitched forward, falling into a pool of blackness.
The engine revved as it climbed the hill. The wrought iron gate that led to Wyatt’s property stood open and inviting. In the distance, he saw the wide porch of his refurbished farmhouse. The newly installed solar panels winked in the early afternoon light. Pressing down on the accelerator, he rocketed past the driveway, cursing himself for what he was about to do.
Three years ago, Wyatt walked away from the FBI, after realizing he could no longer trust his instincts. So why was he now returning to the place where Axl Baker’s body had been found? Did he not have any confidence in the sheriff? Had Baker’s sister goaded him into looking for something that may not exist?
Or was it what he feared—that the similarities to his final case proved that he was still stuck in the past after all this time?
Wyatt didn’t like any of the possibilities.
Nothing that happened was really any of Wyatt’s business. Yet, he couldn’t let it go.
It was almost twelve fifteen when the turnoff for the old schoolhouse came into view. Pulling onto the shoulder, Wyatt turned off the ignition. With a final curse, he leaped from the truck. Wind whipped off the mountains and howled as it danced along the plain. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his vest, he walked slowly to the rutted track.
He kneeled next to a sapling. The little tree was hardly higher than ten inches, and yet it had been snapped in half. Wyatt recalled the sheriff clambering out of his large truck, the undercarriage more than a foot off the ground. There was no way that the big truck had broken the little tree.
If not Haak’s vehicle, then what had?
On foot, Wyatt followed the path. It was as if every plant that grew above four inches had been mowed down. Definitely done by the grille of something low—most likely a sedan. Was it a clue to a mystery, or simply an oddity with a reasonable explanation?
Clouds roiled at the peaks of the Rockies, promising to bring cold, wind and more snow. In less than ten minutes, he’d covered the last half of a mile and the little schoolhouse came into view.
The first thing he noticed was that the stench of death was gone—once the body had been taken away, no doubt the structure had been able to air out. Yellow-and-black police tape had been stretched across the door, barring entry. But it was more of a warning than a true obstacle and Wyatt ducked underneath to enter the single room. Without the body, the space seemed bigger and brighter. Less ominous.
Wyatt spent a minute trying to imagine the room in a bygone era, with a score of children sitting obediently behind rows of wooden desks. The image never held, and his mind returned to what he had seen yesterday. The body. Stone and wood. Sunlight and shadow.
A gust of wind shook the walls and sent a leaf skittering across the floor. Bit by bit, the natural world was laying claim to the structure. He kneeled and picked up the leaf, twisting it between his fingers. Yesterday the floor had been clean, and now not.
There had to be something that he’d missed.
Thinking back to Everly Baker’s insistence about her brother’s habits, Wyatt stepped back outside, scanning the ground around the cabin for any sign of Axl’s missing camera. The glint of metal. Glass, reflecting the light.
There was nothing.
With his back to the door, Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest and looked across the horizon. The mountains. The plains. The sky. And him alone in the world, just like he wanted.
Still, the mystery of Axl Baker’s death was now, uncomfortably, a part of him, like dirt tattooed into the creases of his knuckles. The unanswered questions lingered, pinging away at him like popcorn in a hot pan. A body with no evident cause of death. No signs that the deceased had struggled, either. The floor, that yesterday was swept clean. Plants, broken on the trail. The missing camera. The sister, desperate for answers.
Each was a piece to a puzzle. But in reality—together, did they create a picture? Or were they even connected in the first place?
Was the broken vegetation a clue? Not really, especially when Wyatt considered that the medical examiner would’ve followed the same path when he came to collect the body. The dirt-free floor was harder to explain but wasn’t impossible.
But what about Everly Baker? He had the power to help her. What had he offered? Nothing but trite advice. Definitely not his finest hour.
He spoke her name out loud. “Everly Baker.” The wind stole the words before he could decide if he liked the way they tasted.
The feeling of their accidental touch lingered on his fingertips. Her skin had been soft, and a sweetly spicy scent surrounded her. It was somehow homey and sexy at the same time. Her eyes, a jade green, had spoken of sadness and strength.
He rubbed his fingers on his jeans.
But it had been there, something he hadn’t felt—or wanted to feel—for such a long time. It was a connection with another person.
He’d come to Wyoming three years before to escape. Escape the scrutiny of higher-ups. Escape all of the questions from the media. Escape the stress, and, most important, escape the doubts that constantly nagged him, even in his dreams.
No. He wouldn’t get involved in the unexplained death. He’d left the need to hunt down killers in his past life—that was, if Axl Baker hadn’t died of natural
