Crimson River (The Edens)

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.

How had it come to this? How had I become the villain?

“I’m heading to Montana. Might be gone a week or two,” I told him, knowing he wouldn’t ask why or how long I’d be gone.

Asking too many questions might cross that invisible line drawn between me and my family. Besides, Dad knew why I left town. And like Tiff, he thought I should have moved on years ago.

“All right,” he murmured.

“I left in a hurry. Would you mind taking the trash to the curb on Wednesday?”

“What about Tiff?”

“She’s moving out.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Okay.”

“And would you mind grabbing my mail every few days? Just so it doesn’t pile up.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Yep.” He ended the call.

These stinted, abrupt conversations had become normal. And somehow, that was my fault.

Next time I left, I’d call a friend to check on the house.

I set my phone aside and focused on the road, taking in the landscape along the way. Plenty of mountains. Dense evergreen forests. This part of Montana wasn’t all that different from Idaho. Maybe that was why Cormac had returned. He’d wanted a taste of home.

The only thing he deserved to taste was three squares a day from a prison cafeteria.

Fuck, but I hoped this lead was something real. Hope was a dangerous game for a man like me, especially where Cormac was concerned. But with every passing mile, it stirred, building and swelling in my very bones.

By the time I arrived in Quincy, my muscles were jittery. My fingers drummed on the steering wheel as the highway slowed, turning into Main Street. As I eased down the road, I soaked in the small town like a sponge.

The Eloise Inn, the hotel where I’d booked a room, was the tallest building in sight, interrupting the jagged mountain horizon in the distance. Businesses, restaurants and a couple of bars filled the downtown area.

The lampposts that lit the sidewalks were wrapped in twinkle lights. Store windows were decked out in autumn décor, pumpkins and potted mums and vibrant leaves.

As I passed a hardware store, I made a mental note to stop by and pick up a map of the local area. Digital maps and GPS worked for some, but I’d always preferred paper.

My mentor had taught me that.

He’d also taught me that time was critical. If a suspect had too much of a head start, catching up became impossible. The APB had been posted Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, it was Sunday. But two days was faster than any of the other leads I’d found.

Maybe Cormac thought that after four years, the world had forgotten about his crimes. Maybe he’d gotten comfortable wherever it was he was hiding. Maybe if he’d built a shelter, settled into the area, he might not be as quick to leave.

A string of maybes. That was all I had.

It would have to be enough.

I parked on Main, taking my bags from the back of my silver Dodge and hauling them into The Eloise Inn. The desk clerk checked me in efficiently, sending me to my room on the fourth floor with two keys and restaurant recommendations for dinner.

I was too anxious to eat much, so rather than stop by Knuckles, the hotel’s restaurant, I dropped my bags in my room, then headed outside.

“Howdy.” A man nodded as I passed him on the sidewalk outside the hotel.

“Evening.” I dipped my chin, already liking Quincy’s friendly atmosphere and the fact that here, I was a nameless, faceless stranger.

I’d hardly left the house in the past two weeks because of the recent media attention. The one time I’d gone to the grocery store, I’d gotten plenty of sideways glances. The cashier had flat-out asked me if I was that cop.

Until that shitstorm died down, I was more than happy to spend my days in Montana.

Ironic, that I’d started my career to stand apart. To be one of the heroes. To wear my gleaming badge with pride. These days, the last thing I wanted was attention. And my badge had a tarnish that no amount of polishing seemed to erase.

Exactly why I’d left it behind.

I crossed Main, heading for the coffee shop. The small green building had a sandwich board out front advertising today’s specials. Mocha latte. Ham, apple and swiss panini. Pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. The words were written in chunky block letters, each adorned with swirly flowers.

The shop’s large, black-paned windows consumed most of the street-facing wall, giving patrons a clear view of the sidewalk and street. In the evening light, they acted like a mirror, reflecting the cars that passed as well as people walking by, me included.

Goddamn, I looked like shit. I dragged a hand through my hair, attempting to tame the dark strands. It needed a cut, and I hadn’t shaved in a few days. The stubble on my jaw was thick. Maybe I’d leave it, grow a beard.

Tiff hated beards.

That didn’t matter anymore. And a beard might distract from the dark circles beneath my eyes. Sleep had been light since, well . . . I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept for more than four or five hours in a row.

I finger combed my hair one more time, but the effort was futile, so I straightened the collar of my plaid jacket before reaching the coffee shop’s door.

Eden Coffee was written on its face in gold lettering. I pulled it open and breathed in the scent of coffee and food. Good food. My stomach growled. Guess I was hungry.

I’d been in the middle of lunch with my laptop when I’d come across the Quincy Police Department’s APB. That meal had been abandoned in the trash, and I hadn’t stopped again once I’d hit the road.

The shop’s walls were the same deep green as the exterior, giving it a warm, inviting feel. Wooden tables and chairs filled the space on either side of the aisle that led to a counter at the back of the café.

The glass display case overflowed with pastries and desserts. The espresso machine’s hiss dulled the conversation from the occupied tables. My boots thudded on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the counter.

The barista wore a pine-green apron. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck. She had thick, winged eyeliner and her lips were stained purple. Not plum or wine, purple, like a grape jellybean.

She held up a finger as she finished steaming her jug of milk. “Give me one minute.”

“Sure.” I nodded, scanning the large chalkboard menu mounted to the wall behind the counter.

A table in the far corner beside the glass windows would give me an open view of Main and also provide a decent workspace. Better than the cramped desk in my hotel room.

“What can I get you?” the barista asked.

“Ham and swiss panini, please. And a, uh . . .” I peered into the display case. “What’s your favorite thing in there?”

“It’s all good, but I think Lyla is just finishing a batch of her cowboy cookies. Highly recommend.” She pinched her fingers together and did a chef’s kiss.

“Sold.” I dug out my wallet, handing over a twenty just as a woman emerged from the hallway that led deeper into the building.

She carried a tray of cookies, her hands covered in tangerine oven mitts. Her apron was the same pine-green shade as the barista’s. A dusting of flour covered her heart and there was a one-inch streak on her forehead, above her delicate right eyebrow.

Her cheeks were flushed the same pretty shade of pink as her soft pout. A tendril of dark hair had escaped the messy knot on the top of her head and swept across her temple.

My hand lifted, acting on its own, either to tuck that lock of hair behind an ear or wipe away the flour streak.

Her sapphire-blue eyes darted to me as she set the tray on the counter, then pulled off the oven mitts.

Even with the two black eyes she’d tried her best to cover with makeup, she was breathtaking.

She offered me a small smile before dropping her chin into the chunky scarf wrapped around her neck as she began adding cookies to the display case. That scarf was thick, but the bruises on the long column of her throat seemed determined to make an appearance. They peeked out beneath her dainty jaw.

Black eyes. Bruised throat. Clear signs that someone had wrapped their hands around her neck.

The APB from the local authorities had described Cormac perfectly. Better than any previous report. The bulletin had stated that he was a suspect in an attempted murder but hadn’t listed a means.

Strangulation, maybe? That was fitting. And according to the APB, this crime had occurred outside of Quincy, in the wilderness. Cormac’s playground.

There was a chance this woman had nothing to do with him. That I was simply desperate. But I’d listened to my gut for a long, long time. And it was shouting that she was the one who’d crossed Cormac’s path.

“Here you go.” The barista set a plate on the counter with my sandwich, some chips, a pickle and one of those fresh cookies. “Anything to drink?”

“Water. Please.”

“You got it.” She nodded, then put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “I can finish with the cookies, Lyla.”

She nodded as the barista walked to the sink against the back to fill me a glass of water. But she didn’t abandon those cookies. She kept putting them in the display case.

Lyla. Beautiful name. Beautiful woman. Too beautiful to be covered in bruises.

It was just another sin that Cormac would suffer for. I’d make that bastard pay for what he’d done to the girls. To Norah. And to Lyla.

She noticed me staring. That flush in her cheeks brightened. “Can I help you?”

Her voice was raspy. Raw. Barely a whisper.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I think you can.”