Page 4 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

I look at the computer screen again. Travis Holt. Alive and publishing books under a pen name. It’s almost like he’s daring someone to connect the dots. I don’t know if he’s the hero my brother swore he was—or the reason my brother is dead.

I don’t have time to decide. That night, I wake to the sound of my bedroom window sliding open. For a second, I think I’m dreaming. Then I see him—silhouetted against the light from the alley, broad-shouldered, still as stone, dressed in tactical gear with a long blade in one gloved hand.

He touches the comms unit in his ear. “We may have a problem.” There’s a pause. “No,” he says, flipping the blade in his hand, “it shouldn’t be one for long.”

I don’t think. I don’t scream. I move.

Years of Krav Maga—Krav Maga I barely passed, if I’m being honest—come into play. I roll off the bed, grab the lamp, and hurl it as hard as I can. It connects with a solid crack. The intruder stumbles. That’s all the opening I need.

I bolt barefoot across the room into the attached bath, shove the vanity chair under the doorknob, grab the clothes I had laid out for tomorrow and my go bag from the top shelf. Launching myself through the bathroom window, I race down the fire escape, barely catching the railing before I slip. I hit the alley running, lungs burning, heart hammering like it wants out of my chest.

I don’t stop—not until I’m blocks away, huddled inside a twenty-four-hour laundromat with the go bag my brother had insisted I create containing duplicate keys, burner phone, false identification, credit cards for that ID, a wad of cash that Nick had given me and his field journal.

Before the sun even begins thinking about kissing the sky, I’m on a bus heading west.

Boulder, Colorado

Three days later, I’m standing in the parking lot of a used car dealer outside of Boulder, in a thrift-store parka and hiking boots that don’t quite fit, gripping a backpack like it holds answers or at least a map to them. I pay cash for an old Jeep that seems in good shape—Nick taught me how to make a quick assessment.

The air here smells like pine needles and snowfall. The kind of air that makes your city lungs rethink their life choices. I’m not prepared for the cold, or the altitude, or the sheer quiet of this place. But I follow the note Nick left me. Hand-drawn. Circled coordinates. One name.

Travis Holt.

I have no idea what I’m walking into.

But someone wanted to kill me, and that means someone thinks I know something. I don’t, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Are they looking for Holt? If I’m going to survive long enough to figure this out, I need the man my brother trusted more than anyone else in the world—even if I don’t trust him at all.

I pull up the small town of Misty Mountain on my phone and set my course.

The main street of Misty Mountain looks like a woman who drinks her coffee with cream and chaos designed it. Everything’s cute, rustic, and vaguely suspicious—places with names likeEvergreen Books & Trinkets, Rusty Elk TavernandMistyMountain General Store. The latter includes a gas station that probably hasn’t changed its prices since before the turn of the century.

There’s only one place that has an open sign glowing like a beacon and a chalkboard sign that reads:

Come in for Coffee. Stay for Gossip.

Or Don’t. We’re Not the Boss of You.

That’s my kind of welcome.

The Pine & Petal Café is warm and smells like cinnamon, butter, and good decisions. A fireplace crackles in the corner, and there’s a bookshelf stacked with paperbacks that look well-loved and probably a little sticky from years of syrupy fingers.

Behind the counter stands a woman who looks like she could run a small army or a successful gossip empire, depending on her mood. She is petite, with curly auburn hair, freckles, bright green eyes, a tattoo sleeve of delicate wildflowers, and the kind of face that says she doesn’t have time for lies unless they’re really entertaining.

I don’t make it three steps in before she clocks me.

“You’re either lost, hunted, or one awkward date away from torching a man’s truck. Which is it?” she asks, eyes sharp as she wipes her hands on a towel.

I blink. “I—uh. Can I vote for all of the above?”

She grins. “Oh, I like you already. You look like you need food and a place to sit before your knees give out.”

“I wouldn’t say no to coffee and maybe something with five hundred carbs.”

“I’m Clara Montgomery. Clara, if you don’t want me to call you ma’am and fuss over your eyebrows.”

“Abby. No fussing, please. I’m hanging on by a thread made of bad caffeine and trauma.”

“Well, good news, Abby.” She moves fast—grabbing a mug, filling it with something strong enough to bring the dead back for one more round and sliding a cinnamon scone the size of my face onto a plate. “We specialize in both.”

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