Page 5 of Death Valley

And so the article I read this morning that had mentioned her disappearance was about a guy who had gone hiking recently in South Tahoe, but never returned when he was supposed to. This prompted a multi-day search for him that turned up nothing. That is until his family hired a tracker out of Donner Lake called Jensen McGraw, who was able to locate the missing hiker in a matter of days, discovering him in a ravine where he had fallen. He had suffered a broken leg and concussion, hidden from the searching helicopters by the rocky terrain, but thanks to Mr. McGraw’s help, he was now in the hospital and on the mend.

Perhaps it was foolish to even get excited about what I read. When I was placed on leave, Carlos told me I needed to find closure with Lainey, not keep reopening old wounds. But the thing he doesn’t get is that the wounds never closed to begin with. They remain as raw and open and bloody as the day she disappeared. They’ll stay that way until I get actual closure.

Which means when they find her body.

I’ve come to terms with the fact she’s dead. I know it. My dreams tell me so every night. The dreams never start the same but they end the same. In my sister’s death.

But knowing in your heart that someone is truly gone without any concrete proof is a special kind of purgatory I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And so I’m going to keep doing everything I can to find her, even if it means hunting down a tracker named Jensen McGraw.

I pull the bureau-issued Durango onto the highway and take the first turn off toward Donner Memorial State Park. As I pass the park monument, a chill runs down my spine despite the bright sunshine, and my hands instinctively grip the wheel. It isn’t just that I’d spent so much time here when Lainey first went missing, gathering friends plus fellow agents who wanted to support me as civilians as we canvassed the area. It’s something more than that. It’s that the history of this place was the whole reason Lainey came here to begin with.

“It’s calling me, Aubrey,” she’d said over the phone the day before she left. “The mountains keep calling me and the dreams never stop. I have to go. They’re trying to tell me something. Show me something.”

You’d think what she said sounded cryptic, but that was Lainey and I was used to her obsession. When Lainey was nine years old, her history class went on a field trip here, since they were studying the Donner Party and it’s not too far from Sacramento. When she came home later that evening, shealmost seemed like she had a fever. Her eyes were shining so brightly, her cheeks flushed, and she could barely speak. My father was still out on duty so I was in charge of her and I had her taking a shot of Children’s Tylenol before she finally told me what happened.

Turns out she wasn’t sick, she was just fanatical. And while she had been eerily quiet since she stepped in the house, suddenly she was blabbering all night long about the Donner Party and everything she learned, forcing me to learn it all as well.

Ever since then, it became Lainey’s obsession. Even in high school she was re-reading all the books about the historic tragedy, saving her money so she could bid on supposed heirlooms on eBay, sometimes dressing up in pioneer woman’s clothing as some kind of historical cosplay. Lainey always had an addictive personality thanks to our mother, and at the time I remember my father saying “Well, at least it’s not drugs” (I should be glad he wasn’t around later to eat his words), and blamed it as her way of coping with our mother’s death.

He might have been right. We all did what we had to do to cope. And when he died in the line of duty one horrible evening, Lainey leaned into her obsession even harder. Unfortunately, she also leaned into drugs, bad men, and poor decisions. And yet through it all, her affinity for the Donner Party remained. I chalked it up to her being one of those people fixated on different points in history, though to be honest I’d wish she’d been wrapped up in the Civil War or the French Revolution instead of the gruesome and disturbing events that befell the eighty-seven emigrants that fateful winter.

So when Lainey rang me up and told me that she and her deadbeat boyfriend Adam were going to go visit the park because it had been calling to her, I wasn’t worried and I definitely wasn’t surprised. It was an early summer day andthough I hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, she seemed okay. She seemed sober. And I thought maybe it would be good for her to get out of the city and get some fresh air and exercise. A change of pace. She sounded feverish about her dream, the same dreams she’d always had, where she felt the mountains were speaking to her, but that was just the way she was.

But now, I’m not so sure.

I hate myself for not picking up anything amiss. What kind of investigator was I if I didn’t see the warnings? What kind of sister was I, for that matter, to just take her at face value and let her go tramping off with a guy I didn’t trust? Did Adam kill Lainey in the mountains? Did they end up going elsewhere, stranded in the deserts of Nevada? The fact that there have been so few leads since has been a weight on my shoulders every single second of the day. Even the nights offer no respite, filled with dreams of blood and snow. I dream about herandthe Donner Party.

With my knuckles turning white, I force myself to do the box breathing exercises my therapist taught me how to do until I gain control and clarity back. I need to focus on the task at hand and figure out if this McGraw character is going to help me or not. The only information I have about him is what the twins at the saloon said: father died, ranch in financial trouble, takes care of his ailing mother, and that he must be in his late thirties. I should have asked if he was married or not, but I felt like I needed to get out of there with the information I got. There was definitely something sketchy about the bartender and her relationship to him, or at least she knows some things about him that I shouldn’t, and that makes me expect this won’t be smooth sailing. Call it a hunch.

Still, if the ranch is still in dire straits—and I assume it would be if McGraw has to battle the costs of our unjust healthcare system—he might be willing to help if a large sum of money wasinvolved. Luckily I have most of my inheritance put aside for this.

Cold Stream Drive runs along a river, a small, forested hill rising to one side. It’s pretty here, the ponderosa pine and sage brush dotting sunbaked grass and thistles, the occasional stand of quaking aspen giving the landscape a burst of shimmering yellow. I roll down the window, sweet autumn air filling my nose, smelling of some long-forgotten memory or nostalgia for something I never had.

Eventually the road gets bumpier until the pavement gives way to dirt and the SUV bounces along dips and bumps, dust rising in my wake. The forest seems thick here, enough that it blots out the sun, though that could be because it’s just dipped behind the mountains, and the temperature outside drops enough that I have to roll up my window.

Just when I think I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, a gate appears with a wooden arch over it that says Lost Trail Ranch with symbols on either side that look like a cattle brand. The wood is worn and weather-beaten, the words barely visible. I drive under it, the dirt turning to gravel for a bit as the road takes me through the trees until it opens up, just out of the shadow of the mountains.

Lost Trail Ranch sprawls across the ponderosas like something out of an old western, all weathered wood and rusted metal gleaming in the sun. The main house sits on a rise, a two-story craftsman with a wide porch, dark green with wood trim. At first it looks just as old as the sign but as I pull my car up beside a rusted GMC truck, I spot security cameras tucked under the eaves, reinforced locks on the front door, and a carefully maintained roof. Someone’s invested heavily in this place.

The driveway splits at the house—one fork leading to a gravel parking area where I’ve parked, the other winding down to the barn and outbuildings. The barn itself is massive, the woodlooking new, with neat stacks of hay bales visible through the open doors. More cameras. More locks.

A lot of security for a working ranch.

Behind the barn, the land opens up into paddocks and pastures, dotted with horses grazing in the autumn grass. The Sierra Nevadas loom beyond the pastures, their peaks already dusted with early snow. Pine forests climb the slopes, dark and dense. The ranch sits at the edge of civilization, that razor-thin line between tamed land and wilderness. No neighbors in sight. No passing traffic. Just miles of forest and rock stretching toward Donner Pass.

A creek cuts through the property somewhere, the sound of it mingling with wind in the pines, the distant cry of a hawk. At surface level it’s certainly peaceful, yet there’s something about this place that has me on edge and I don’t know why.

Movement catches my eye—a man in a round pen, working with a horse.

I carefully get out of the car, closing the door softly. I want to walk toward him but I don’t want interrupt what he’s doing, so I stay by my car, watching. I wonder if it’s Jensen McGraw.

The horse is young, a red bay stallion with wild eyes. The kind of horse that I’d want to stay far away from (my relationship with equines is complicated to say the least).

But the man moves with the kind of liquid confidence that comes from years of doing something dangerous. No rope, no bridle, no saddle. Just him and the horse circling each other in the dusty arena.

He hasn’t noticed me yet. His attention is fixed entirely on the stallion, reading its movements, anticipating each shift. Cowboy hat, worn jeans, white T-shirt dark with sweat despite the autumn chill in the breeze.

The horse suddenly charges, shiny coat rippling in the sun. The man pivots, a matador’s move that turns the stallion at thelast second. There’s a grace to it that doesn’t match his size. The man is tall—six-two maybe—with the kind of hard muscle that comes from manual labor, not a gym. His muscles flex as he moves, tattoos visible on his arms, and if this wasn’t such a shitty situation I think I’d be in big trouble. He’sexactlythe kind of man I’d die to bring home, especially with that scruffy beard.

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