by Mia Sheridan
No, it was impossible really. The more she thought about it, the crazier it seemed. That man had nothing to do with her or her parents. She was grasping at straws. Her memory was faulty, full of holes and—
Three hearts entwined . . .
She sucked in a breath and dropped all but one photo, bringing it closer to see the locket hanging at the base of her mother’s throat.
Three hearts entwined in the middle.
It looked exactly like the one Lucas had been wearing.
**********
Dusk was already falling by the time Harper pulled herself together, showered, and threw on clothes. She’d skipped the cucumbers and the concealer, more pressing things on her mind than her dark, overtired eyes.
She pulled on her winter gear, including her waterproof snow boots. She might have to hike a bit in the snow, and she wanted to be prepared. Large flakes were falling steadily by the time she pulled off onto the road leading to Isaac Driscoll’s empty cabin. Isaac Driscoll’s empty, blood-stained cabin, Harper reminded herself. A shiver moved through her, and for the first time since she’d spotted the necklace in the photo of her dead mother, she second-guessed her decision to drive out there and confront Lucas.
She glanced at the shotgun in the backseat behind her, the weapon she carried when she took hunters out in the wild and what she’d placed in her truck before leaving. Instead of bringing her comfort, it only brought further uncertainty.
This is crazy. Temporary insanity.
She knew how to hunt and was a good shot, but she’d never been especially keen to do it. It always left her feeling kind of . . . sad. Her heart always ached when she saw the dead animal she’d killed staring unseeing at her with big, startled eyes. She never told anyone that—the quality wasn’t exactly a selling point for people looking for a competent guide to take them on their wilderness expeditions, but . . . she could admit it to herself.
The land south of Driscoll’s cabin was mostly flat, and she turned her truck in the direction of the three peaked mountains, the four-wheel drive making it easy to roll over the snow-covered ground. She drove around trees, her tires bumping over rocks and small hills that leveled out again.
How far had he said he lived from Driscoll? Ten thousand something steps? She removed her phone from her pocket, but there was no service. Darn. Agent Gallagher had been able to pull up an email though, and Dwayne had mentioned that Driscoll made a 9-1-1 call. Reception was probably spotty as it often was in the wilderness. She was pretty sure there was an old logging road with a dead end somewhere in the direction she was traveling. That open area where the trees had been removed might provide some service. But for now, Google wouldn’t be any help.
She thought she remembered that it took the average person about fifteen minutes to walk a mile. How many steps would you walk in fifteen minutes? About . . . two thousand? Maybe? If so, that meant . . . Lucas lived approximately five miles from Driscoll.
If her math was right, which was iffy at best. Also, she was headed from Driscoll’s toward the peaked mountains Lucas had mentioned to Dwayne, but there was no telling if his house was mostly a straight shot, or if he’d turned in a different direction at some point. She might drive her truck right into a lake.
I should turn back.
This was totally stupid anyway. Irrational, actually. It was just . . . it was just that she’d spent so many lonely years looking for her parents. She’d gone out over and over, day after day, from the break of dawn until night fell, and never come back with a thing. And then that necklace. And she had to know. Right then.
I can’t wait another second.
Her breath hitched when she spotted smoke rising into the deepening night sky, her heart lurching. She pressed her foot to the accelerator and the truck jerked forward, snow being sprayed to either side. It’s his cabin, she thought, her nerves zinging. It has to be.
Anticipation trumped her caution, and she pressed on the accelerator, driving through the small copse of trees in front of what she could now see was a log structure, not large, but larger than Driscoll’s place. Huh. If Driscoll had two places on his property, why would he choose the smaller of the two?
She stopped in front of it, grabbed her shotgun, and hopped out. Before she could talk herself out of it, she climbed the three steps to Lucas’s front door, and rapped twice, her breath labored even though she hadn’t exerted herself with the short walk.
The door swung open and he was standing there, bigger and more imposing than she remembered him, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She stepped back, and he did too. She met his eyes, the shock on his face clear.
Harper cleared her throat, propping the shotgun on the small porch. His eyes followed it, then he looked back to her. “Where did you get that locket?” she blurted.
He stared at her for a long moment, and then tilted his head, his dark brows dipping.
“Tell me.”
He looked behind her to where her truck was parked and then slowly back to her as if trying to understand the situation. His head turned toward the small grouping of trees and he muttered something under his breath before stepping forward, directly into her.
Harper sucked in a breath, a small sound of surprised fear rising to her throat as he took her forearms in his hands, moved her aside easily, and walked past her. She whipped around to see him hop down the steps and prowl toward the trees.
What . . .
She watched him for a moment, immobile with surprise. He crouched down and started moving the snow with his arm, speaking words she was now too far away to hear.
She moved slowly down the steps, walking toward him, uncertain and completely baffled.
As the crunch of her footsteps sounded in the snow, he looked over his shoulder and then back at whatever he was doing, continuing to clear something. She leaned forward and pulled in a startled breath when she saw four sets of eyes peering back at her, shiny in the dim light, but not so dim that she couldn’t see what they were. Foxes. Babies. She took in her own tire tracks right next to the den and clenched her eyes shut for a moment. She’d driven her truck right over a den of baby foxes. “I didn’t know they were there.”
He stood, turning toward her. She couldn’t read the expression on his face, and they stood looking at each other for an awkward moment.
She shook her head. “God, I’m so stupid. I bring people out to the wilderness for my job, and I should know better.”
He stared at her again, an infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes. But he didn’t contradict her.
“Your feet are bare,” she finally said. Stupidly. “They must be cold,” she added. Even more stupidly. Which, at this point, should be my middle name, she thought with an internal grimace. She pressed her lips together, embarrassed, and uneasy.
He simply stared at her for a moment and then turned toward his house.
She glanced at the fox den and with the snow cleared, she could see it was only four baby foxes, no mother. She must be out hunting. They were still covered in the snow her reckless driving had caused to cave in on them, and they had to be cold. A tremor of guilt went through her. Concern for the helpless things.
Lucas had cared about them too. He’d run out there to make sure they weren’t suffocating to death.
“Will they be okay?” she called, knowing it was better not to touch them, knowing it would risk their mother smelling a predator, and abandoning the den. Still . . . to leave them that way, cold and wet and alone . . .
He slowed and turned his head slightly. “They will be, or they won’t. Better to let their mother do the job now. If she’s still alive.”
If. She knew he was right, still she hesitated, watching as he climbed his short set of steps. He was going to go back inside his house. “Wait,” she called. It only took her a few seconds to jog back to his house and climb the steps to the porch where he had turned and was watching her, that same thin-lipped expression on his face. He looked more . . . normal now without the layer of
animal skins. Just a large, muscular man with several visible scars, longish hair, and a short beard. Not a caveman . . . no . . . more of a mountain man, or . . . a guy who’d been out living off the land for several months.
An extremely good-looking mountain man who exuded testosterone and danger. And if she was so unsettled, why was she noticing the former? Because it can’t be ignored, that’s all, she told herself. His good looks startled her in their intensity. It wouldn’t make her any less cautious of him. Maybe he was like one of those wildcats she’d spotted a few times. Sleek and beautiful to look at, but wild and dangerous. Brutal even.
Although he didn’t seem brutal. Just wary . . . and curious. Intelligent and uncertain.
She took a deep breath, the barrel of the shotgun making a knocking sound as it came to rest on the wood porch. He glanced down at it—casually this time—and back to her. “I’m sorry. I was careless and rude. I . . . I thought I recognized the locket hanging around your neck. It looks familiar and I . . . I was wondering if I could see it, just for a moment. I’ll give it back. I just . . . may I look at it? Um, Lucas. Oh, and in case you don’t remember my name, I’m Harper.”
She’d stumbled over her words and felt breathless, a lump rising in her chest for reasons she wasn’t sure she could explain. She could hardly believe she was out there, standing in the snow with this man. Couldn’t believe she’d acted so rashly. Foolishly, maybe. But she couldn’t manage to be sorry for it, or wish she’d considered it more carefully. “Please,” she whispered.
His light eyes seemed to soften minutely, though he was still regarding her as though she were an anomaly he couldn’t understand.
Their gazes held as he pulled the leather string from the collar of his shirt, and her gaze shot to his large, scarred hand, watched as it pulled the string so the locket appeared. Her breath hitched and she stepped forward, her trembling fingers reaching for the small round piece of silver, hesitating midway, the fear inside her suddenly growing. What if . . . what if . . .
She was standing on a precipice. The next several seconds might change everything. With a rushed exhale, she extended her arm and grasped the locket, her hand touching his as she took another step toward Lucas. They were toe to toe. She tipped her chin, looking up at him and he stared down at her, their breath mingling, the weight of the moment seeming to have fallen over both of them. She saw his nostrils flare and knew he’d just inhaled deeply. Was he inhaling her? His head dipped minutely, so minutely she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been so close, and then the same drawing in of breath. Yes, he was taking in her scent. And something about the flickering expression on his face told her he’d enjoyed the experience. It made her stomach clench in a foreign way, and she was so overwhelmed with fear and emotion and confusion, she thought she might faint.
She didn’t know this version of herself. She always held it together. Always. And yet all she wanted to do was fall into his chest and ask him to hold her for a moment while she gathered herself to look at that locket.
Wildcat, Harper, she reminded herself, taking a small step back.
Time slowed and with effort, she moved her gaze from his, her eyes going to the locket that was engraved with three linked hearts.
Always together, never apart.
She let out a small sob as she reached up with her other hand, using her thumbnail to open the small disk, her hands shaking so badly, it almost slipped from her grasp. But it didn’t. It fell open to reveal a miniature photo of three people, their arms encircling each other, the joy in their smiling faces clear.
She remembered that joy, felt it cascade over her like a ray of warm summer sun.
The photo was of her father.
Her mother.
And herself.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Agent Gallagher?” The tall, sixty-ish man in the khakis and button-down blue shirt extended his hand, giving Mark an easy smile as they shook. “I’m Dr. Swift. What is it I can do for you?”
They were standing in an open reception area, hallways on two sides where a small group stood chatting. “I have some questions about someone who used to work here. Isaac Driscoll? Is there somewhere more private we can speak?” Mark was eager to talk to this man, and to sit down in a place where he could make better note of his reactions—the man who had once worked closely with Isaac Driscoll.
“Isaac? Uh . . . I haven’t heard his name mentioned in years.” Dr. Swift appeared flustered for a brief moment. “But yes, of course. Please follow me.”
Dr. Swift led him to a room down the hall with a whiteboard on one wall and across from that, a long one-way mirror. It appeared that this was some sort of interview room and when he asked, Dr. Swift said, “Yes. Project researchers use this room to observe subjects answering questions or relating to each other, reacting to things, etcetera, depending on the study.”
“Ah,” Mark said. He’d taken classes in social science when he was in school—which was a long time ago now—but was interested to hear exactly what was involved in the study aspect.
There was a large table in the center of the room with a pile of small white notebooks off to the side. “Is this okay?” Dr. Swift asked, pulling a chair out from the table and indicating one across from it.
“This is great, thanks,” Mark answered, taking the seat across from the doctor.
Dr. Swift looked at him expectantly, lacing his fingers together on the table. He was a large man and his shirt stretched tight over his wide shoulders, a button sitting on his stomach looking dangerously close to popping. “Isaac Driscoll retired . . . let’s see”—he looked upward, obviously doing the math—“in two thousand two or three?”
Mark nodded. “Yes, I know it’s been a while.”
“What is this about, Agent? Is Isaac in some kind of trouble?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but Isaac Driscoll was found dead two days ago.”
Dr. Swift stared at him for a few moments, seemingly frozen with surprise. Finally, he blew out a long breath. “Found dead . . . How?”
“Murdered.”
Dr. Swift’s eyes widened. “Murdered? Isaac? How? Why?”
“We’re still investigating the crime. I don’t have many answers yet. I’m hoping you can shed some light on a few things.”
Dr. Swift blew out another breath, running his hand through his black and gray speckled hair, dramatic streaks of silver at his temples. “I can try. It’s been a long time since I even talked to the man.”
“What exactly did he do here at Rayform? His job title is listed as social researcher.”
Dr. Swift nodded. “His job entailed collecting, analyzing, and interpreting data. The government was, and is, particularly interested in findings that might help change social policies or affect current ones. The applications are dependent on the purpose of the study.”
“And are most of the studies conducted here funded by the government?”
“Most, yes, though some of the studies are funded by research grants or fellowships.”
“Can you give me an example of a specific study Isaac worked on? I’m trying to get a better picture of who he was and why someone would want to harm him.”
Dr. Swift looked off to the side in thought for a moment before answering. “I think the study he completed just before he retired was about poverty and criminal behavior, something along those lines. I don’t remember the specifics, but I could probably look it up and email it to you.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.” Mark slid a card across the table and Dr. Swift took it, putting it in the breast pocket of his shirt. “What can you tell me about Dr. Driscoll on a personal level?”
Dr. Swift shrugged. “Overall he was a nice guy. He could be intense. A little . . . awkward at times maybe.” He smiled. “What can I say? He was a researcher. We’re not often known for our bubbly personalities.” He shook his head, frowning. “God, I can’t believe . . . can’t believe he’s dead. Murdered.” He looked back at
Mark. “You don’t think his death had anything to do with his work here, do you?”
“It’s doubtful since he retired so long ago, but I’m still trying to see the big picture. Dr. Driscoll bought several thousand acres of land about twenty miles outside the nearest populated area. Do you have any idea why he would retire and move out to the middle of nowhere?”
Dr. Swift looked surprised for a moment, then thoughtful. He sighed. “From what I remember, Isaac grew increasingly pessimistic about people in general . . . society as a whole.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “I do remember him saying several times that he was ready to be done with people entirely, that animals behaved more rationally and in a way that would preserve their species as a whole, rather than destroying it.” Dr. Swift chuckled, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “I thought he was mostly joking, or just . . . venting. Although I have to say, I didn’t completely disagree with the sentiment. It’s easy to become cynical after studying societal downfalls year after year. Sometimes it feels like things never change.”
Mark offered a wry smile. He didn’t completely disagree with the sentiment either. He’d seen things in his line of work that made the idea of abandoning people entirely and living with wild animals sound appealing. People were hateful and cruel, vicious, and underhanded. But . . . but they were also capable of selflessness and acts of deep love and grace. Mark had to remind himself of that often. And the fact was, people needed other people in order to hold on to their own humanity. He didn’t need to be a social scientist to know that.
“So, you think Isaac Driscoll may have bought land far away from society because the work he did caused him to disdain people in general?”
Dr. Swift released a long breath and rubbed at his eye with one finger. “I can’t speak to his exact motives. Like I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve spoken with him. But . . . it doesn’t sound improbable to me.”