Page 17 of One Step Too Far

“Why not Sasquatch?” Bob replies, scarfing down the last of the nachos. Then, when I’m still peering at him skeptically, “Why missing persons cold cases?” he challenges me.

“Because someone has to find them, and sadly, the authorities often aren’t looking.”

“Exactly.” Bob beams at me. He has cheese in his copper-colored beard. If anyone can pull off the look, it’s a Norse god.

I turn to Luciana. “How did you become a member of this party?”

“I’ve worked with Nemeth before, finding an elderly man who wandered off into the mountains. Nemeth called, I answered.”

“And you?” I quiz Bob.

“Marty contacted me a few years ago, looking for information. We’ve been in touch ever since.”

“And you know about the other missing hikers?”

“Yep. Six in total.”

Lisa Rowell had said at least five. So six sounds right.

Luciana is nodding, so apparently she’s familiar with the bigger picture as well.

“What do you put our odds of success at?” I ask no one in particular.

Luciana does the honors. “I think we’ll find something—or really, Daisy will find something. Want to know an interesting fact involving large-scale searches of wilderness areas?”

“Sure.”

“Volunteers almost always discover a body. Just not the body they’re looking for. There’s that many human remains in the woods.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Bob, on the other hand, has no such issues. He regards both of us hopefully. “So... dessert?”

—

It’s nine p.m. by the time we return to the motel. True to Rowell’s prediction, the temperature has dropped sharply, and I have my arms tucked tight against my torso for warmth. The sun has set. Above us, the stars spread out against the dark blue sky like a scattering of diamonds. It is beautiful and mesmerizing and humbling.

And I have that fizzy, restless feeling I get right before a new case. Nerves. Anxiety. Basic personality. Even as a kid, I couldn’t sit still. I was always seeking something more, looking for anything but what was in front of me. Which translated to twenty-plus years of hard-core drinking before I met Paul and he showed me the patience and acceptance I couldn’t show myself.

Now I have this, a job few understand. Standing in the parking lot right now, however, Bob to one side and Luciana to the other, I think this might be the closest I’ll ever come to discovering like-minded souls. The only difference being they pursue their efforts as side projects, whereas I’ve walked away from everything most hold dear just to be here, with people I’ve never met, looking for a person who’ll never come home alive.

I’m tired. I’m hyper. I want to plunge into the woods and recover Timothy O’Day’s body so his mother can die in peace. I want to run all the way back to Boston and place my head against Detective Dan Lotham’s solid shoulder and... let go. Fall just so he can catch me. My body will melt into his. He will stroke my skin and it will feel better than anything I’ve ever found in a bottle.

Except then it will be morning.

There’s always morning.

And he will want to keep holding me, because he’s that kind of man. A solver of riddles, a fixer of broken things.

But I’m not really a riddle and I am definitely not broken.

I’m just... me.

Nemeth is waiting in the lit parking lot. He has two packs at his feet—the giant yellow one that belongs to Josh and a smaller, hopefully lighter-weight one that I’m guessing is now mine.

“How’s Josh?” Luciana asks first.

“Detoxing. Others are back, prepping for tomorrow.”

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