Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“There,” he says after a few minutes of silent tracking. “Sky pilots.”
My heart skips, then races at the sight. A cluster of blue-purple flowers sway in the breeze, nestled against the granite outcropping we’ve been heading toward. They’re delicate but sturdy, the kind of wildflower that survives in harsh alpine environments where little else grows.
“Lainey loved those,” I whisper, pressing my hands to my chest, as if to keep my heart inside, sadness sweeping through me.
Jensen turns to me, brow furrowed. “Did she now?”
“Since we were kids. Our dad took us camping once near Mt. Shasta, and there were fields of them. She called them her ‘mountain friends.’” The memory catches in my throat. “She even tried to grow them at home, but they never took.”
He studies the flowers, then me, something unreadable in his expression. “Sky pilots only grow above ten thousand feet naturally. We’re not high enough. These shouldn’t be here.”
“What are you saying?”
“Someone must have planted them. Recently. They’re not established enough to have self-seeded.”
I step closer to the delicate blue blooms, my fingers trembling slightly as I reach out to touch one. “Do you think…” I begin, my hope palpable. “Lainey could have planted them three years ago?”
“Dunno,” he says. “Could be anyone.”
The implication hangs between us, unspoken. If not Lainey, then who? And why her favorite flower, here, now?
Jensen glances up at the rock formation. “Let’s check around these boulders. Seems like a place someone could hunker down.”
I follow him as he circles the granite outcropping. On the far side, sheltered from view of the main trail, the rocks form a natural alcove. Protected from the wind, it would make a decent camping spot.
“Someone’s been here,” Jensen says, pointing to a small, carefully arranged fire ring. “Multiple times.”
He moves with practiced efficiency, examining every inch of the site. I watch his hands—the same hands that had traced paths of fire across my skin now gently brushing away pine needles, turning over charred rocks, reading stories I can’t see.
“Jensen,” I call, spotting something wedged in a crack between two boulders. “There’s something here.”
He’s at my side in an instant, his proximity sending a flush of warmth through me despite the gravity of the moment. Carefully, he works the object free.
A woven leather bracelet, the kind made at summer camps and craft fairs. Simple brown cords with a single charm, a small metal disk stamped with a mountain peak.
My breath catches. “That’s…that’s Lainey’s.”
Jensen hands it to me without comment, watching as I turn it over in my palm. The leather is weathered but intact, protected from the elements by its hiding place.
But now that I’m holding it, I can’t be too sure.
“It looks just like the one I gave her for her sixteenth birthday,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I got it because she loved the mountains so much. She used to wear it all the time…until she didn’t. I assumed she lost it.”
Except I was pretty sure the metal had been gold, not silver, and that the mountain had two peaks, not one.
Jensen’s eyes meet mine, and I see something there—concern, maybe compassion. “Aubrey…”
“Maybe she was here.” My voice is stronger now, conviction building. “Doesn’t it seem like too much of a coincidence? This was her special place, Jensen. She picked this spot. She planted those flowers.”
He doesn’t argue, but I can sense his reservation. I know what he’s thinking. I’m seeing only what I want to see.
He’s probably right.
“The question is, why hide the bracelet like that?”
I run my thumb over the mountain charm. “Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it broke off and fell. Or…”
“Or someone else put it there,” Jensen finishes for me.
The thought sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine despite the warm day. I scan the small clearing, trying to see it as Lainey might have—a private sanctuary in the wilderness, a place to connect with her obsession. A place where no one might hear her scream.
Did Adam do this?
Did Adam kill her and try to hide the evidence?
Suddenly I’m looking at this place differently.
Like a crime scene.
Jensen moves toward the back of the alcove, where shadow meets stone. “There’s something else here.”
I join him, tucking possibly Lainey’s bracelet safely in my pocket. In the dimness against the stone wall, I can just make out markings, shapes scratched into the rock face. The markings resolve into crude drawings and what looks like tallies. Some are weathered, clearly older than others. Some appear fresher, the scratches lighter in color where they’ve exposed the rock beneath the surface patina.
“Maybe Donner Party records,” Jensen says quietly. “Some of these markings match known historical sites where they kept count of days. But these others…” He traces newer marks with his finger, not touching the stone. “These are recent. Within the last five years, I’d guess.”
The tallies are grouped in sets, some with slashes through them, others untouched. Below them are strange symbols I don’t recognize, geometric patterns that seem to repeat.