Page 7 of High Frequency

Nothing’s changed, she’s still stubborn as fuck.

“Did you know she was back?” James asks.

“Fuck no,” I grumble.

I hope she’s only visiting, but when I see her climbing into the back of the ambulance with the sheriff, I have a nasty suspicion it won’t be the last I see of Sloane Eckhart.

Just what I needed.

Three

Sloane

Talk about hitting the ground running.

I haven’t even been officially hired yet, but Sheriff Junior Ewing told me to tag along into the mountains. I’d barely been in his office long enough for him to explain it’s a brand-new position he is looking to fill. One born out of necessity, from what I understand.

Libby’s small police department had all but disintegrated over the past years after a scandal took out some key players, leaving the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office to pick up the slack. The LPD is slowly being built up from the ground again, but not fast enough to meet the growing demands on law enforcement as crime is rising. Even in small-town Montana.

According to Ewing, it’s not easy finding experienced law enforcement officers willing to relocate to Libby, let alone take a pay cut, given the limited budget the Sheriff’s Office has to work with.

The position is for a detective who would report to the sheriff but is expected to also work together closely with the tiny Libby police force, which currently is only three. A full-time job with flexible hours, depending on caseload.

I could barely contain my excitement when he outlined it, it’s like the position was made for me. I was going to ask for a day or two to figure out childcare for Aspen. Pippa offered, as did Ama, but both of them work too. I’m going to need a better plan than simply counting on family.

Of course, that’s when Ewing received that phone call and I suddenly found myself ushered out of his office and into his cruiser. He mentioned a couple of hikers hearing screams overnight and finding a backpack. A search team had just located a young girl clinging onto the edge of a cliff. He suggested I might come in handy in talking to the girl.

“We found her name in the backpack, it’s Chelsea Littleton. Only fourteen years old,” he explains as we turn south on Hwy 2. “She’s from Columbia Falls, was reported missing this past weekend. Apparently, she took off on Friday after an argument with her parents, who thought she’d be back after she cooled off. They spent all night looking for her and when she still hadn’t shown up Saturday, they called it in.”

It’s Tuesday now. She’s been missing for four days. How does a fourteen-year-old girl get from Columbia Falls—which is northeast of Kalispell—to the mountains just south of Libby? That’s about a hundred miles, a long-ass way to come without transportation.

“She’s a long way from home,” I think out loud. “No way she got here under her own steam. Are you sure it’s the girl?”

“Not confirmed yet—apparently, she’s not talking—but it would be a bit of a coincidence to find a young girl matching the description of a missing person in the middle of nowhere, less than half a mile from where the backpack with her name was located,” he points out.

True enough, but I know from experience, drawing conclusions without supporting evidence can be a dangerous habit to get into for an investigator. Assumptions don’t get very far in court.

“Is she hurt? Any signs of visible trauma?” I ask.

“We’ll find out when we get there. EMTs are en route.”

We drive in silence, lost in our own thoughts, until Ewing steers the cruiser onto a dirt road leading up the mountain on the other side of the Fisher River.

“You know,” I start, unable to stop thinking about the four days the girl has been missing, and all that could’ve happened to her during that time. “If itisChelsea, she didn’t get here by herself.”

I glance over to find Ewing looking back at me.

“Yeah, I know,” he confirms. “That’s why I figured it might be easier for her to talk to a woman.”

Clearly, he’s thinking along the same lines. There’s no way you can work in law enforcement, seeing what we see on a daily basis, and not have your mind go there. There are some sick individuals out there. The ambulance is not far behind us as we pull into the small parking lot at the base of the trail.

“They shouldn’t be too long,” Ewing announces as he gets out from behind the wheel.

I follow suit and get out of the cruiser as well, taking a deep breath in.

I’ve missed this; the scent of pine, soil, and cool, fresh mountain air. Living in Billings turned me into a bit of a city girl, and I haven’t really ventured out much since returning—I’ve mostly stuck around my uncle’s house this past week—but in this moment I realize how much more at home I feel here in the mountains.

I didn’t grow up here—initially my only tie to this area was my uncle living here—but there is a reason why I ended up here twice when my life hit a roadblock. As much as I’ve tried to deny it, this place is where I feel grounded and connected.