Page 162 of Heart of Frost and Scars

“Why?” Leo snarls. “What the fuck does it mean?”

I don’t have an answer. All I know is that the fragile threads holding us together are unraveling, and it’s up to me to stop us from falling apart.

But how do I protect my family from a ghost? From a past that refuses to stay buried?

“Carl.” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay composed as I look at the security guard. “Find out where this package came from. Check the delivery records. I want to know every detail. Oliver, go with him. Give him a list of your suppliers and contacts.”

As they spring into action, I turn to Kody.

The bond we began to forge by the shore is now tempered in fire, our shared grief a new kind of brotherhood. We’ll find the answers. We’ll face this darkness together.

“No cops.” Kody’s eyes meet mine, and the wall between us cracks. “It’s time to hunt.”

34

Monty

—

“Everything circles back to Hoss.” I pace back and forth in the sitting room, my fingers curling into fists, my insides a mayhem of sorrow, impatience, and cold, seething rage.

It’s been two days since the gruesome package arrived. Two days without answers.

Leo and Kody stand nearby, their expressions mirroring my turmoil. Frankie sits on the edge of the couch, her face lined with fatigue.

We’re all haunted by the contents of that box. Too haunted to sleep.

Locating the cabin has become our priority. If we find the cabin, we’ll be closer to finding Wolf’s body or the location where he was pulled from the river. There would be clues there. Footprints. Something.

But first, we need to know whose heart that is.

Without involving the authorities, I sent the box with the organ and photo to New York to be analyzed by a forensics team. I pulled strings, called on some discreet connections, and cut through red tape, with Wilson managing the investigation.

The results should arrive any day now.

From the moment the package arrived, we’ve done nothing but brainstorm, plot, and strategize, our collective minds focused on finding the stalker. We’ve gathered every resource, analyzed every clue, and formed theories that twist and turn with no end in sight.

The four of us have thrown ourselves into the task with a relentless hunger, driven by the urgent need to bring Wolf home.

Dead or alive.

Kody, his brooding eyes darker than usual, leans over a map spread out on the table. “If this stalker has been following Frankie, they must have access to surveillance equipment or resources. They know our movements, our vulnerabilities.”

“We need to think about who benefits from this chaos.” Leo runs a hand through his shoulder-length hair, the Viking braids tangling around his fingers. “Who gains from our suffering?”

Frankie sent her list of suspects to Wilson. People from her past, friends, associates, fuck buddies—it wasn’t a long list. Still, I wanted to memorize every name and hunt them down myself just for touching her.

Wilson has the daunting task of cross-referencing our suspects with flights and passenger lists. Someone was near Hoss when Wolf jumped off that cliff. His body must’ve drifted miles downriver, but eventually someone found him and took that photo.

Someone was in those fucking hills, lurking in an unsurvivable place where no human would venture.

That same someone knows about the flight logs I found in my father’s cellar. Wilson is circling back to Alvis Duncan in Whittier to gather more information on the men who collected those logs over the years.

“What are your thoughts on Pushkin?” She bends over a notepad on the oak coffee table, reading the riddles and poetry quotes for the hundredth time.

Beside her elbow sits the leather-bound copy of Pushkin’s poems that I unearthed from the wall in my father’s office. Months ago, I had the book analyzed for codes and cryptic messages. Another dead end.

“Alexander Pushkin.” I take a deep breath. “To understand the quotes, you must understand the man. He was a Russian poet and literary genius, who suffered from morbid, delusional jealousy and fucked anything that walked. Like a paranoid, pathological Don Juan of his time. Ironically, he loved his wife and constantly accused her of infidelity. He was also known for his rages and would fight a duel at the drop of a hat. As it turns out, it was a duel that took his life.”

---