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)
The anger comes in waves, ebbing and flowing as we make our way higher into the mountains. Anger at Jensen for hiding the truth for so long. Anger at Lainey for never telling me what she knew, what she suspected about our family, our connection to this place. Anger at myself for missing all the signs, for failing to protect her from Adam, from whatever happened to her in these mountains.
Some sister I am.
Some FBI agent I am.
Years of training, of developing instincts for deception and danger, and I still couldn’t see what was right in front of me.
Or maybe I didn’t want to believe it.
Didn’t want to believe that Adam was isolating her, controlling her, that Lainey was following a compulsion deeper than rational thought, driven by something in her blood.
“We’ll reach Benson Hut by late afternoon,” Jensen announces, breaking the silence as we pause to let the horses rest at the top of a particularly steep incline. “Trail levels out a bit from here.”
I nod but don’t reply, taking a swig from my water bottle instead. Behind me, Cole and Red are having a hushed conversation, their voices carrying just enough for me to catch fragments—something about trails and signs, about whether Jensen knows what he’s doing. Hank sits apart, staring into nothing, his face blank. He’s been quiet since we left the cabin, the jovial manner he displayed this morning giving way to a more watchful demeanor.
Eli crosses to where I’m standing, leading his horse by the reins. “How’re you holding up?” he asks, quiet concern in his voice. Good ol’ Eli, always looking out for people. Except at the moment I’m a little pissed at him too. He also knew the truth of why we came up here. I know I couldn’t have expected him to bypass his boss to tell me, but my feelings aren’t rational at the moment.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically, the answer I always give no matter how untrue it might be.
He studies me, gaze too perceptive for comfort. “He told you, didn’t he? About Lainey and Adam.”
I nod, not wanting to get into it.
“I know you’re probably mad at him,” he says. “Hell, I’d be furious. No one likes being lied to, especially when you’re in a foreign situation and your trust, your life, is in that person’s hands. But do know that Jensen is a good man. He’s loyal. He might have lost your trust but you can trust him just the same. He cares for you, Aubrey, truly.”
I brush that off. “Whether he cares for me is irrelevant at this point.”
“Maybe to you, but not to me. Just know, this has been eating him alive. Not only since the moment you walked onto the ranch, but for the last three years. He’s been haunted and now we’re chasing ghosts.”
I want to ask him more—about his side of events, about what he believes and thinks about all of this—but Jensen calls for us to mount up, and the moment passes. We continue our journey, following a trail that winds through stands of pine and fir, occasionally opening onto exposed ridgelines that offer breathtaking views of the valley below and the peaks beyond.
Under different circumstances, I would find it beautiful and exhilarating. Now, I can only see it as the place that claimed my sister.
That might yet claim us all.
By late afternoon, as promised, Benson Hut comes into view. It’s roughly the same size as the McGraw cabin we left this morning, a sturdy A-frame structure designed to shelter backcountry skiers and mountaineers from the harsh Sierra winters, or provide space and indoor comforts for hikers on the Pacific Crest Trail during the summer. It sits nestled against a granite outcropping, partially protected from the wind that’s beginning to pick up as the sun dips toward the western horizon.
Jensen leads us to a small clearing beside the hut where we dismount and begin unloading the horses. The routine is familiar by now—unsaddling, brushing down. Then we set up a makeshift corral with rope between the trees, laying out feed and water. There’s no lean-to for shelter, but Eli insists the horses are used to it and will be fine from the elements with their thick winter coats and the added rugs. I work methodically, grateful for the physical tasks that keep my mind occupied.
The interior of Benson Hut is spartan but functional—a main room with a wood stove, sturdy table and benches, and bunks built into the walls. A small side room serves as a rudimentary kitchen, and a loft accessible by ladder provides additional sleeping space. It’s cold inside, but not as bone-chilling as the cabin had been when we first arrived.
“Tell me this place has a toilet,” I say.
“There’s an outhouse just behind,” Jensen says. “I’ll clear a path so it’s easy to get to.” Sympathy twists on his lips. “Sorry. It’s not a bad one as far as outhouses go. There’s even a hand sanitizer station inside.”