Page 64 of One Last Chance

Axel’s mouth tightened.

“I don’t see him committing the same murders where he’s from. Unless he gets sloppy, and desperate.”

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head.

“What?”

“You are a river-monster hunter.”

Her mouth opened.

“Reaching into the darkness, pulling out the scary fish.”

She gave a small laugh. “I guess.”

Tillie returned with a plate of fries and another of fried chicken. “Shakes on the way.”

“I might have lost my appetite,” Axel said after she left. He took a fry. “Or not.” He reached for the ketchup. “Ever thought about doing something different?”

She took a fry. Salty. Crispy.Yum. “Like what—move to Alaska, live in the bush, and track wolves? Been there, done that.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Or just not get shot at?” He blobbed ketchup onto his plate.

Sweet. “Sorry to drag you into this. I know it’s gruesome.”

He looked up at her then. Put down the ketchup. Then he sat back and sighed. “What I haven’t told you, Flynn, is that . . . I really don’t have a choice.”

She stilled. “What?”

“I know more about the Midnight Sun Killer than I’ve told you.”

* * *

He hadn’t meant to trek into the past, to the worst day of his life, but it’d just sort of spilled out, and now Axel’s words lay on the table between them.

“What do you mean you know more about the Midnight Sun Killer?” She’d put down the piece of chicken she’d reached for.

Stared at him, her expression unreadable.Angry? Curious? Worried?

“My fifteen-year-old cousin, Aven, was one of the early victims of the Midnight Sun Killer.”

He blew out a breath, watching how the words landed. She blinked, then nodded and leaned back. “I see.”

“And it was my fault.”

She gave him a dubious look.

“Okay, before you say anything, just . . . listen.” He pushed his plate away. Sighed. Looked out the window. The sun hung over the backside of the day, still high but casting rays across the mountains, the shadows almost blue.

A gorgeous Alaskan day. The kind of day where people died.

“We were out camping, just the kids—Moose and me and Aven and some of my cousins from Minnesota who were visiting, along with the Bowie brothers and Nash Remington and the Kingston triplets—a whole bunch of us. My parents knew where we were—we’d camped on the river for years. And actually, they were camping with their friends—the Bowies and my aunt and uncle and a few others—just down the road so . . . Anyway, we were below the lower falls, toward Jubilee Lake. Usually a really safe area.”

She hadn’t moved, just listening. The sun swept into the window, turning her hair that copper red, and he suddenly wanted to ditch the story, grab her, and drive.

“Go on.”

“Right. So we were all pretty accomplished kayakers and swimmers, and we’d taken the run down the river, over the falls—the river wasn’t high or anything. Moose and a few of the others decided to haul in, set up camp, make dinner. But not me. And not Aven. She was . . . well, maybe a little crazier than I was. She had this wild side—not rebellious, just . . . she liked to do all the things—cliff jump and kayak and ride dirt bikes and . . . we were close.” He lifted a shoulder. “She was like a sister, maybe. Anyway, we decided to take another run, and I went first over the falls, then waited for her at the edge of the churn pool.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “She hit it all wrong. I don’t know why or how, but she came over backwards, hit the pool already coming out of her kayak, and by the time the boat surfaced, she was out of the seat.”

---