Page 56 of Protector of Talon Mountain

“Then I’m going to help you understand the situation.” I crouch, bracing one forearm on my knee so I’m eye level with him. “Brent’s going down. That garage fire? Arson. We’ve got photos, boot prints, cell tower pings, everything. The burn site? Blood and debris. The Feds are already interested, Adam. When they come knocking, and they will, you’ll want it on record that you cooperated. Because if you don’t, you’re going down with him—and I promise, he won’t protect you.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Adam blurts, too fast.

I nod once. “Then tell me who did.”

He hesitates. Swallows. His lip trembles, and I know I’ve got him. All I have to do is keep pushing.

“I just moved money,” he says finally. “Brent set it all up through the LLCs. I didn’t even know the names on half of them. I’d get a packet, do the transfers, keep my head down. That was the deal.”

“And Tom Davies?” I ask, voice suddenly cold. “You keep your head down there too?”

Adam freezes.

I lean in closer. “You were there. The night he disappeared. Tell me what happened.”

Adam’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His breathing starts to go shallow, like he’s choking on his own guilt.

“Folks around here seemed to think the two of you were friends, or at least friendly.” My tone is sharper now. “The sheriff died trying to protect this town. Trying to stop whatever the hell Brent was bringing in through those trails. What did Hal have to do with it?”

That breaks him.

Adam’s head drops forward, and the words tumble out fast, like he’s been holding them in so long they’ve rotted. “Hal knew. About the drops, the ATV runs, the shell companies. He didn’t want to, not at first, but Brent leaned on him. Said the town needed funding. That he’d ‘take care’ of Tom if he didn’t back off.”

“And he let him,” I say, fury spiking through my blood. “Hal let him.”

Adam nods miserably. “Tom found a cache spot near Ridge Hollow. Said it didn’t feel right. Said he’d go back the next day and report it. He never got the chance. Brent confronted him in the woods that night. I wasn’t there, I swear—I just heard them talking about it after. Brent said he ‘handled’ it. I didn’t ask how.”

I stand slowly, fists clenched at my sides. Caleb’s already moving toward us. He heard enough.

“We get a location?” Caleb asks, quietly.

Adam doesn’t hesitate now. “Half-mile past the old power line marker. There’s a rock shelf, and a dry streambed behind it. That’s where they put him.”

Caleb’s already turning toward the trail. I follow. We leave Travis behind to secure the site and deal with Brent’s transport. He’s stable now, conscious, which is more than he deserves.

The hike is short but brutal—tight switchbacks, roots slick with snowmelt. Caleb leads, flashlight beam cutting ahead in rhythmic sweeps. We reach the power line marker, a rusted pole barely standing. Just past it, the ground levels, then dips into the streambed Adam described.

“Here,” Caleb says, kneeling beside a stretch of churned earth.

I drop beside him. The soil’s been disturbed—months ago, maybe more—but the freeze didn’t reach deep enough to hide everything. Caleb pulls a folding entrenching tool from his pack, and together we start to dig. The silence between us is grim, determined.

Six inches down, the stench hits. Earth and death. We find the body ten minutes later, wrapped in plastic sheeting. Not buried deep. Just hidden. Forgotten by the men who wanted him erased.

But not anymore.

Caleb strips his gloves, jaw tight. “It’s him.”

Tom Davies. Former sheriff. Good man. Honest. Loyal. And dead because he tried to do the right thing. I stand and take a long breath, staring out over the ridge.

“They thought they could bury him,” I say. “But all they did was plant the fuse.”

Caleb nods once. “You gonna bring Hal in?”

“Yeah,” I reply, voice low. “But not tonight.”

“Why?”

I turn toward the darkening trees. My phone buzzes again—another message from Sadie. No words. Just a photo of the fire crackling in Wren’s hearth and a glimpse of her curled up on the couch in my flannel.

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