Please don’t let one of them find my body.
Through the tears, I took in my killer’s face. He had reddish-orange hair—a ginger. The stubble on his granite face was the same color. His eyes were a rich brown, like the brownies I’d made this morning at the coffee shop. There was a jagged scar on his face, pink and about six inches long. It ran from the corner of his eye all the way to his chin.
How did he get that scar? I guess I’d never know.
The black crept closer, faster.
Why? I mouthed the word, unable to speak.
My arms and legs were getting so heavy. I batted at his wrists again, using the last of my strength until my hands dropped to my sides and my knees buckled. My eyelids might as well have been made of lead. They drifted closed as my head began to float.
The bear spray. I reached for the pocket, my movements sluggish, but I managed to slip my index finger through the trigger’s circle. But before I could even think about lifting the can, his hold on my throat loosened. The can slipped from my grip, clattering against the ground at my feet.
Then I was falling too.
My knees cracked on the rocks and pain ripped through my legs. I collapsed on a shoulder, my hands coming to my throat. It burned like he’d set it on fire, but his hands were gone.
He’d let me go.
I coughed and gagged, dragging in air through my nose, anything to fill my lungs. I clutched my stomach, curling up on the ground, gasping for a full breath. Every inhale ached. The tears kept flowing, my insides churning as my head spun in circles.
He’d let me go.
Why? I forced my eyes open, risking a glance in the distance. The backpack, the bow and the man were gone.
He was gone.
I gave myself three heartbeats. Then I shoved up to my feet.
Run, Lyla.
This time, I ran.
CHAPTER TWO
VANCE
Where the hell was my wallet? I patted my jeans pocket for the tenth time, then scanned the bedroom again. It wasn’t on the nightstand. I’d put it on the nightstand. The damn thing couldn’t have sprouted legs and walked away.
“For fuck’s sake.” I didn’t have time to search for my wallet when I needed to get on the road, but before I could get on the road, I needed my fucking wallet.
“Tiff,” I hollered, pinching the bridge of my nose.
She emerged from the hallway and stood in the doorway, hazel eyes still blazing from our argument. “What?”
“My wallet. Have you seen it?”
She pursed her lips.
“Tiff,” I clipped. Did she really think if she kept me here long enough, I’d change my mind?
She huffed and fished my wallet from her back pocket. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it on the bed so it landed beside my backpack and suitcase.
I gritted my teeth, holding back a snide comment. “Thanks.”
“You’re really going.” She crossed her arms over her chest, her nostrils flaring.
“I have to go.” I swept up my wallet, tucking it in my own pocket, then slung my backpack over a shoulder. The zipper’s seams were stretched to the max. The same was true for my suitcase. Not having any idea how long I’d be in Montana, I’d erred on the side of too much rather than not enough.
“I mean it, Vance. I won’t be here when you get back.”
She’d said the same earlier after I’d told her I was going to Montana. It hadn’t really surprised me, probably because I’d been expecting it for, well . . . a long time.
“You don’t have anything to say?” she asked.
No. No, I didn’t. And my silence only heightened her frustration.
She threw a hand in the air. “When are you going to give this up?”
“Never,” I whispered.
Until my dying day, I would never give up this search. Everyone else had stopped looking for Cormac. Everyone else had abandoned Norah and the girls. They deserved justice. They deserved vengeance.
There was no giving up.
“You won’t find him,” she said.
“I might.”
“He’s. Gone.” She punched each word, like volume alone would make me believe them.
He wasn’t gone. That son of a bitch didn’t get to be gone.
Maybe this lead would turn into nothing, just like every other lead I’d followed in the past four years. But if there was even the slightest chance I could catch Cormac’s trail, then I’d take it.
I hefted my suitcase off the mattress, moving for the door, but Tiff shifted and blocked my path.
“I can’t do this anymore.” Her chin began to quiver. “I can’t stay here and wait while you chase your demons.”
“Then don’t.”
When we’d first gotten together, Tiff had encouraged me to go. But at some point in the past three years, she’d become just like everyone else. She wanted me to let it go and move on with my life.
I couldn’t move on. I wouldn’t. And if she didn’t understand that, well . . .
“Leave the keys on the counter.” We were over. We’d been over. It was time to stop pretending like we had a future together.
“That’s it?” Her eyes flooded. “I tell you I’m moving out and you ask me to leave the keys on the counter?”
Yes. “I need to go,” I said, jerking my chin for her to get out of the way.
She shifted, just enough for me to slide past, then followed me down the hallway. “You never would have done this before the shooting.”
My jaw clenched. “This has nothing to do with the shooting.”
“Vance.”
I sighed, turning to face her. “What?”
“Please don’t go.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Stay. Stay with me.”
This was why we were over.
If she truly loved me, she’d never ask me to stay.
I set my suitcase and backpack on the floor, then put my hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
I was sorry that I wasn’t the man she needed. I was sorry that I couldn’t be the man she’d expected. I was sorry that I didn’t love her too.
“I love you.” A tear fell down her cheek.
I didn’t catch it.
“Bye, Tiff.” I stepped away as a sob escaped her mouth. Then I collected my bags and, without a backward glance, walked to the garage. My gun was already loaded in the glove box of my truck, so with my things in the back seat, I climbed behind the wheel and took off.
Maybe I should have hurt, knowing that Tiff would be gone when I got home. Instead, I felt . . . relieved.
Tiff was a good woman who’d helped me through a hard period in my life. She’d filled a void, for a time. She’d made me laugh when I’d thought it impossible. But she deserved a man who loved her entirely.
That man wasn’t me.
Maybe she was right. Maybe this endless search for Cormac was ruining my life. It sure as hell had taken a toll on my job. But I wasn’t going to stop. So I put Coeur d’Alene in my rearview mirror and raced along the interstate toward Montana.
It was a three-hour trip to Quincy, meaning if I hurried, I’d arrive before dark with time to poke around town and get my bearings. I’d already called ahead for a hotel room, booking it for a week. With any luck, I’d pick up Cormac’s trail by then.
This lead was the closest I’d ever been to finding that slippery bastard. It had been two days since the APB had been issued, and while two days was plenty for him to disappear, maybe he’d gotten complacent. Maybe he wouldn’t feel the need to rush. Or maybe he hadn’t left Montana at all.
I’d spent four years chasing Cormac Gallagher. From Washington to Utah to Oregon to Colorado, the man had proved impossible to find. He’d beaten me at every turn. But this time around, something felt different.
How long had he been in Montana? Why had he come so close to Idaho? Had he been hiding right under my nose for months? Years?
Or would this turn out to be another dead end?
Three years ago, I’d followed a lead to Colorado. Police had reported a man matching Cormac’s description. Red hair. Brown eyes. Same build and height. But that man hadn’t had a scarred cheek, and when I’d found him hiding in a ramshackle house in the mountains outside of Fort Collins, I’d turned him over to the authorities, then come home and drowned myself in a bottle of cheap whiskey.
Six months later, I’d followed a lead to Utah. Another bust. Four months later, I’d been in Washington. Three months after that, Oregon. I’d spent four years traipsing around the Pacific Northwest, following any lead.
Chances were, my trip to Montana would be another wasted trip. Except the all-points bulletin from Quincy had clearly described a man with a scar. None of the others had given that much detail.
This time, it would be different. It had to be different.
I pulled out my phone to call Dad. The minute it started ringing through the truck’s speakers, my grip tightened on the wheel. Go to voicemail.
“Hello,” he answered.
I sighed. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hold on a sec.” There was a rustling noise in the background. Then came the sound of a door opening and closing. “What’s going on?”
There was an echo, like he’d closed himself in the garage.
That was usually how it sounded when we’d talk. Either he’d disappear to the garage or he’d go outside so he could talk to me where Mom wouldn’t overhear.