Page 10 of Running to the Mountain Man

“Hey, I remember this place,” he says as his headlights illuminate the front of the cabin. “You’re the one who reported a hiker stealing some firewood. Crime of the century, haha!”

I say nothing as I exit the car, closing the passenger door a little too roughly because I want to get away from his energy before I pop him in the nose.

I arrive home tired, cold, starving, filthy—and nauseated from seeing that dead body.

And I’m happy to be home. I watch the patrol car disappear down the mountain before I’m ready for a hot shower.

As soon as I get clean, I plan to eat a steak the size of my house, then sleep for ten days straight. Maybe call my therapist. Or maybe I’ll hibernate until spring comes in earnest because I don’t want to deal with other humans for a long time. No more people, cops, and, least of all, dead bodies.

I kick off my boots on the porch and go inside.

It’s not until I’ve stripped down in the bathroom that I sense something is off.

My spine stiffens at the sight of little puddles of water in the tub. Not just water, but foam residue.

Pretty sure I didn’t take a bubble bath before I left.

No one has touched that fancy shit since my sister visited and insisted on leaving it behind in case I ever have a “special friend” visit in the future.

That was over a year ago.

Maybe she’s back, I tell myself.

But that can’t be right. Rachel would call me first. She knows better.

Then I notice it’s not just the tub that is off. The bathroom TV remote is perched on the window’s ledge next to the tub, not where I usually leave it—in a basket on the counter.

I pick my jeans up off the floor and unsheathe my hunting knife while my heart races inside my chest. It’s a bad habit, leaving that lying on the floor with my dirty laundry, anyway.

Someone is here—or was, recently.

Leaving the bathroom, I look behind every door and peer into every shadowy place.

In the great room, my eyes scan everything before catching several things wrong with this picture. By the sofa is a pair of hiking boots and a depression in the leather cushion on the end. And the built-in recliner hasn’t been put back properly. I tighten my grip on the handle of the hunting knife. Someone’s gonna get stabbed.

I sniff the air, noticing something else strange.

Then I see it: there’s a small saucepot on the stove. With my knife at the ready, I spin around and scan my surroundings, making sure I’m not about to get jumped.

I approach the stove and look in the pot, prepared to see a boiled bunny or something equally horrific. Instead, it’s the remains of …oatmeal? And whoever made oatmeal here also left the honey and cinnamon sitting out, and a sticky ring on the counter.

My logical brain tells me this has everything to do with the killer on the loose and that it must be the same person who I caught trespassing and stealing my shit in my security feed.

Someone is in my house. I can feel it. They have a gun, and all I have is a hunting knife.

I should leave right now. I should call the sergeant who gave me her number, but I know it’ll be that Mark guy who responds. I’d rather get jumped than talk to that guy again, frankly.

I examine every nook and cranny, leaving the bedroom for last.

That’s the only place left he could be.

Backing myself against the wall next to the bedroom door, I count down from three, getting ready to knock someone on their ass if they wave a gun at me.

Three, two, one.

Chapter Five

Goldie

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