Page 105 of Death Valley

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a dark patch on the ground ahead.

Jensen directs the beam toward it, revealing a circle of charred stone and ash—a campfire site, long cold but unmistakable.

“Someone made camp here,” I say, kneeling to examine it despite every instinct screaming to keep moving. I touch the ash, finding it cold and damp. “Somewhat recently.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Jensen says, frowning as he illuminates the area around the fire pit. “What use would they have for fire?”

“Maybe hikers? Cave explorers?” I suggest, though we both know how unlikely that is this time of year.

“No,” Jensen says slowly. “Look.”

The flashlight beam reveals other signs of habitation scattered around the chamber—a tattered backpack leaning against one wall, the remains of what might have been a sleeping bag, empty food wrappers, and water bottles.

“Someone lived here,” I say, the realization settling cold and heavy in my stomach. “Not just passing through, but…staying.”

Jensen nods grimly. “And they were organized and intelligent enough to maintain a fire, to keep supplies.” His eyes meet mine, understanding passing between us. “More than feral creatures acting on instinct.”

The implication hangs in the damp air.

Nate? Could this be where Nate is from?

And if so, is there where his parents are?

Lainey?

I move toward the backpack, drawn by a need to understand, to find any clue about what might have happened here. The material is weathered, discolored with age and damp, but still recognizable as a hiking pack from our time, something you could pick up at Target.

“Be careful,” Jensen warns, staying close as I kneel beside it.

With trembling fingers, I unfasten the main compartment, pulling it open to reveal the contents within. Papers, mostly—documents protected in plastic sleeves, their edges curling with moisture despite the protection. Beneath them, a leather-bound book, smaller than my hand.

The cover is worn, the leather darkened with time and handling. No name is embossed on the front, but as I open the first page, my heart stops.

Property of Lainey Wells.

My sister’s handwriting, so familiar it makes my chest ache. The same looping script that used to appear on birthday cards, on notes left on my refrigerator when we’d lived together, on the margin of books she’d lend me with comments like “I thought you’d like this part!” or “reminds me of Mom.”

“It’s Lainey’s,” I say, my voice barely audible. “Her journal.”

Jensen crouches beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine as he shines the light closer. “What else is in there?”

I set the journal aside momentarily, carefully extracting the plastic-protected documents. Birth certificates. Death records. Adoption papers yellowed with age. All connected to one name: Josephine McAlister.

“Those look familiar,” Jensen says. “She had those on her. Research. Proof.”

I start paging through them in disbelief. Everything she collected about the McAlisters, about Josephine. The connection to our family.

One document in particular catches my eye—a copy of an adoption record from 1847, for an infant named Josephine, her birth parents listed as Thomas and Amelia McAlister, both deceased. The adoptive family’s name is partially obscured by water damage, but enough remains visible: Wells.

“She was right,” I whisper, the truth I’ve been avoiding since Jensen first told me about my possible connection to the Donner Party now irrefutable in my hands. “Wearedescendants of Josephine McAlister.”

“Keep looking,” Jensen urges, his voice gentle despite the tension thrumming through both of us.

With trembling hands, I return to Lainey’s journal, opening to the first entry dated nearly four years ago.

March 15, 2021

Found something incredible today. Birth records for Josephine McAlister showing she was adopted after the Donner tragedy. The family name matches ours—Wells. Could be coincidence, but my gut says no. This is the connection I’ve been searching for, the reason the mountains have always called to me.

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