Page 70 of Death Valley

“Fine,” she replies stiffly, adjusting her grip on the reins.

“Aubrey,” I begin, then stop, unsure how to bridge the chasm of hurt and betrayal between us, unsure how to get us back to the way we were. “About Hank?—”

“Let’s just get to Benson Hut,” she cuts me off.

Her tone brooks no argument. I nod, accepting the dismissal, and move to mount Jeopardy. Whatever happened to Hank, whatever explains the blood trail we found, we’ll have to deal with it later. Right now, our priority is reaching Benson Hut before dark.

We set out under a sky so blue it makes me wish I had sunglasses, the snow-covered landscape stretching toward the horizon like a blank page. The horses move carefully through the fresh powder, steam rising from their nostrils in the crisp air.

I take point, with Eli behind me, then Aubrey, Cole, Hank, and Red bringing up the rear with the pack mule. Behind me, I hear snippets of conversation—Cole asking Hank about his night in the outhouse, Red complaining about the change of plans, Eli occasionally offering a comment about the terrain ahead or some soundbite about history that makes Red scoff.

Aubrey remains silent, and when I glance back she’s focused on the trail. The weight of last night’s revelations hangs between us, unspoken but heavy as the snow on the pine branches overhead.

The trail to Benson Hut follows a natural valley that cuts between peaks, rising gradually toward a saddle that marks the entrance to the next watershed. Under normal circumstances, it would be an easy day’s ride. But nothing about these circumstances is normal, the snowpack higher than it should be this time of year.

As we climb, the sun beating down on the snow creates a diamond-bright glare that necessitates squinting. I find myself constantly checking our surroundings. Every shadow between trees, every rocky outcrop—potential hiding places for things that might be watching us.

Following us.

Behind me, Hank laughs at something Cole says, the sound carrying clearly in the crisp mountain air. It’s the same laugh he’s always had, the same voice, the same mannerisms. And yet I can’t shake the feeling that something happened last night. Something that left a trail of blood in the snow, something that explains why we couldn’t find him despite searching everywhere.

I hope to god I’m wrong.

20

AUBREY

The sky is the kind of endless cerulean you only find at high elevations where the air is too thin to trap pollution or moisture. It stretches above us like a vast inverted bowl, unmarred by clouds, the midday sun reflecting off the snow with blinding intensity. I’ve had to pull my sunglasses from my bag, the glare giving me a headache, though my head hasn’t felt right since Jensen’s revelation about Lainey last night.

We ride in relative silence, the small talk that peppered the crew earlier given way to a few awkward comments and grunts. Duke moves steadily beneath me, following the dapple-gray Jeopardy with the practiced ease of a trail-ride horse. I’m getting used to the rhythm of horseback riding, my muscles moving with each movement, though I’m sure I’ll be sore again tomorrow. Who knew it was such a workout?

Every now and then Jensen turns to take stock of us, his gaze always lingering on me, concern evident in the set of his shoulders, the way he occasionally slows to make sure I’m still keeping pace. I ignore him, focusing instead on the trail ahead. Let him worry. Let him feel the weight of his deception, of what he kept from me. He deserves so much worse than that.

My mind keeps circling back to last night, to everything Jensen revealed about Lainey, about Adam, about the McAlisters and Josephine. That my family is connected by blood to the Donner Party tragedy. That my sister came here deliberately, seeking answers about our family history, about the apparent hunger she’d felt her whole life, hunger I had no idea about.

About the dreams webothhad—blood and snow—though I’d never admitted mine to her.

All this time, I knew Lainey was doing what she could to cope with the loss of our parents. I thought my mother’s death pushed her into her strange obsession, I thought my father’s death pushed her into drugs. I never thought that it was something more than that. Never thought she was trying to cope with a fucking generationalcurse.

The anger comes in waves, ebbing and flowing as we make our way higher into the mountains. Anger at Jensen for hiding the truth for so long. Anger at Lainey for never telling me what she knew, what she suspected about our family, our connection to this place. Anger at myself for missing all the signs, for failing to protect her from Adam, from whatever happened to her in these mountains.

Some sister I am.

Some FBI agent I am.

Years of training, of developing instincts for deception and danger, and I still couldn’t see what was right in front of me.

Or maybe I didn’t want to believe it.

Didn’t want to believe that Adam was isolating her, controlling her, that Lainey was following a compulsion deeper than rational thought, driven by something in her blood.

“We’ll reach Benson Hut by late afternoon,” Jensen announces, breaking the silence as we pause to let the horsesrest at the top of a particularly steep incline. “Trail levels out a bit from here.”

I nod but don’t reply, taking a swig from my water bottle instead. Behind me, Cole and Red are having a hushed conversation, their voices carrying just enough for me to catch fragments—something about trails and signs, about whether Jensen knows what he’s doing. Hank sits apart, staring into nothing, his face blank. He’s been quiet since we left the cabin, the jovial manner he displayed this morning giving way to a more watchful demeanor.

Eli crosses to where I’m standing, leading his horse by the reins. “How’re you holding up?” he asks, quiet concern in his voice. Good ol’ Eli, always looking out for people. Except at the moment I’m a little pissed at him too. He also knew the truth of why we came up here. I know I couldn’t have expected him to bypass his boss to tell me, but my feelings aren’t rational at the moment.

“I’m fine,” I reply automatically, the answer I always give no matter how untrue it might be.

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