Page 53 of If You're Reading This
It would be easier if I could stop thinking about him. Focus on my work. The Denali series is finally coming together. My agent says these photos are my strongest work yet, especially the winter dawn shot withthe fractured ice. Something about brokenness made beautiful.
But I keep getting distracted. Not just by thoughts of Logan, but by this persistent feeling of being watched. Two nights ago, I woke at three a.m. convinced someone was outside my cabin. I lay there for nearly an hour, listening to every creak and groan of the cabin before finally getting up to check.
Nothing was there—just moonlight on snow and my own reflection in the window staring back at me, wild-eyed with fear.
And yet . . .
Yesterday at the river, I found boot prints in the mud near where I’d set up my tripod. Large prints that clearly weren’t mine.
It could have been anyone—fishermen, hikers, tourists even. But the footprints somehow felt deliberate. Almost like a message: I know where you are.
I’ve started checking the locks twice before bed. I even considered getting a dog.
I thought about mentioning my concerns to Logan, but what would I say? “I think someone’s watching me, but I have no proof beyond boot prints in public areas and the occasional feeling of eyes on me?”
He already thinks I take too many risks going out alone to remote locations for shoots. If he thought someone was following me, he’d insist on accompanying me everywhere or, worse, assign some junior trooper to babysit me. My work requires solitude, space to see without distraction.
So I’ll keep this to myself for now. Maybe I’m just working too hard, sleeping too little. Maybe the isolation of winter is finally getting to me after six years in Alaska.
Or maybe someone really is out there, watching and waiting. Someone who sees me but doesn’t want to be seen.
If you’re reading this, future me, I hope you’re looking back on these entries and laughing at your own paranoia.
If you’re reading this, and you’re someone else . . . well, I guess that means something happened to me after all.
Sleep tight,
—Morgan
P.S. Remember to call the gallery tomorrow about changing the lighting for the north wall display. And maybe call Logan too, just to hear his voice.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
PRESENT DAY
The janglingof his phone pulled Logan out of a surprisingly deep sleep.
He blinked quickly before his body instantly went on alert.
It was 7:30. He hadn’t intended to sleep this late. But if someone was calling at this hour, it was most likely important.
Without looking at the name, he answered.
“Hey, Gibson,” a familiar voice said on the other line. “Hope I didn’t wake you. I knew you’d want to hear this update as soon as possible.”
It was Vincent.
Logan pushed himself upright, instantly lucid. “Of course. What did you find out?”
“You’re not going to believe this. But I did some digging like you asked. It turns out Knox got out of prison early for good behavior.”
His breath caught. “What? He was supposed to serve twenty years. When was he released? And why didn’t anyone tell me about it?”
“I’m still trying to put all of that together,” Vincent said. “But he was released four weeks ago.”
Tension thrummed inside him. “Does anybody know where he is?”
