Page 4 of Death Valley

“It’s been awhile,” I say carefully. “So his father died? I had no idea. When was this?”

“Oh let’s see,” Zach says. “Maybe twenty years ago? Roughly? Jensen was just eighteen…” He narrows his eyes at me. “If you didn’t know, you must have known him when you were just a kid.”

“I’m older than I look,” I assure them, hoping they don’t grow suspicious.

“Then you probably don’t know about his mother,” Pete says with a sympathetic head tilt. “What happened to her was just cruel after all they’ve been through. I think they were already struggling with the ranch, in debt.”

“Allegedly,” Zach says pointedly.

“Allegedly,” Pete concedes. “But it was plain to see that Ray was never good with money. Man was too stubborn to give up on the family legacy. Lost Trail Ranch has been in the McGraw family for, oh, at least three generations.”

Lost Trail Ranch, I think.We have a name.

“So what happened to his mother?”

“Sarah,” Zach says. “She had a stroke maybe ten years ago. She and Jensen did their best to keep the ranch going. Lord knows how he does it. Now that she can’t help out, he has to take care of her and all her medical bills. Yet, somehow, that ranch is still running.”

The bartender clears her throat loudly. I turn around to see her staring at them with her one good eye, a look of cold steel. A warning.

But neither of them pay her any attention.

“And where can I find Lost Trail Ranch?” I ask them, wanting to get the info before she actually intervenes. For whateverreason, she doesn’t want me contacting this Jensen at all. “I’d call ahead but Jensen doesn’t seem to have any contact info.”

The bartender clears her throat again. This time Pete eyes her and frowns.

I focus my pleading look on Zach.

Hurry.

“Oh, well you just head back out toward Donner Lake,” Zach says, pointing in what I assume is the right direction. “Like you’re heading to the campgrounds. You’ll come across Cold Stream Drive. Follow that until it turns into a dirt road and about a few minutes after that you’ll come across the ranch. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I tell them, placing my empty glass down on the nearest high table. “You’ve been very helpful.”

I start walking to the door when Pete calls out after me. “What business do you have with Jensen again?”

I glance at him over my shoulder before pushing open the door. “I need him to find someone.”

“Who?” I hear him say as I step out into the bright mountain sunshine and head across the dusty parking lot toward my car.

“My dead sister,” I say under my breath.

2

AUBREY

When I woke up that morning, I was certain my day was going to go like every other day since I was placed on mandatory leave: Whatever guy I brought home the night before I’d shoo out before they could have breakfast and promise I’d keep in touch (though I never would). I’d guzzle back electrolytes in order to quell my hangover, ignore the guilt, and head to the gym for a punishing workout while listening to anX-Filespodcast or Deftones on full blast. After, I’d think about going to the shelters again to look for a cat, though I’d end up not going for fear of commitment, then I’d go back home and wait for an email from Carlos saying I’d been reinstated. When that never came, I’d email my partner Diana and see what’s happening, looking for any clues that I’ll be welcomed back to the bureau soon. Then, when I wouldn’t get what I wanted, I’d get in my gamer chair and lose myself to a few hours ofCall of DutyorDragon Agebefore ordering delivery, swiping right on a dating app, or heading out to the bar and starting the process all over again.

But that’s not what happened.

Instead, I went to be bed alone and woke up to a Google alert I had set for the names “Lainey Wells” and “Adam Medlock.” The same alert I had setup three years ago, a few days after my sister and her boyfriend disappeared, when I realized the FBI wouldn’t be getting involved and the incompetent local cops were going to fuck things up royally. It was when I knew I was going to have to do everything I could to find her alive.

At first the alerts came in every hour, postings about people who thought they saw Lainey, articles in the local papers, then national news sites, with headlines like “What happened to Lainey Wells and her boyfriend when they decided to go hiking in the Sierra Nevada’s that warm day in May?” There was speculation that Adam had killed her, that they both got in trouble with some Reno gangs, that they either were killed or faked their disappearance and were living a new life in Mexico. It wasn’t long before the cops decided that Lainey was just another drug-addicted woman who wasn’t worth searching for, and they gave up and the news alerts started to dwindle.

Lainey became a cold case to everyone but me.

But I had hope. I always had, perhaps too much.

No one ever talks about how destructive hope can be.

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