Page 41 of Wilde and Untamed
He rifled through the desk: research journals filled with hydrological data, technical specifications for water sampling equipment, and field reports dating back several years.
All exactly what he’d expect from a career researcher.
Which was why the slip of paper tucked into a water-systems manual stopped him cold.
A printout of a news article, dated six months ago:
“Research Team Presumed Dead in Antarctic Accident.”
The article was brief, clinical in the way news reports were when they dealt with tragedy in remote places. Last summer, a research team from Thwaites Station suffered a “catastrophic equipment failure” while out in the field that resulted in the loss of all six team members.
Why would Moretti have this?
A noise from the hallway froze him in place. Footsteps. Approaching from the direction of the common area.
Fuck.
His pulse spiked as he folded the article carefully and tucked it back exactly where he’d found it. He eased the desk drawer closed with infinite care, every muscle in his body coiled for action. The footsteps paused outside Moretti’s door.
The room had no other exit, no convenient hiding spot. If whoever was out there tried the door and found it unlocked, he’d be caught red-handed rifling through another man’s belongings. His cover story—lost and looking for the bathroom—would crumble under even casual scrutiny.
But then the footsteps continued down the hall.
He exhaled the breath caught in his lungs and waited for another handful of seconds to be sure the hallway was clear before stepping out. Too close. He’d already been away from the others longer than was smart. Every second stretched the risk.
He should cut his losses. Head back, play it safe.
But Jess’s room was right there. And he’d more than once caught her whispering with Moretti. If they were hiding something, he might find clues in her personal space.
He weighed it the way he always did—pros and cons, risks and gains. Pro: She was cagey, nervous, and if she had something to hide, her quarters would be the place to find it. Con: If she caught him, he’d burn whatever trust he still had with her and maybe with the rest of the so-called crew. Another con: Rue would kill him for pushing his luck.
But the itch in his gut told him there was more going on here than anyone admitted. And the itch never lied.
A quick peek. In and out. Just enough to scratch the suspicion before it drove him crazy.
He stepped toward her door?—
And nearly collided with her as it swung open.
Jess blinked at him, green hair standing up in defiance of gravity. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Looking for something?”
His mind sprinted through a dozen excuses—wrong hallway, lost his way, bathroom again—but none would hold up. Keep it simple.
“Yeah, you, actually. I was hoping to send a message back home.”
“The storm’s blocking communications,” she said flatly, crossing her arms. Her fingers tapped against her bicep in an anxious rhythm.
What did she have to be nervous about? Was it the storm or something else?
He still didn’t fully trust these supposed summer crew hold-overs. Rue hadn’t known about them, and their story seemed off. He needed to get back in touch with his brother and see if WSW was able to put together dossiers on them.
“Right. When do you think we’ll have communications back?” he asked.
“Hard to say. Could be hours. Could be days.” She shrugged and pulled her door shut, testing the knob to make sure it was locked. “Interference happens a lot this time of year. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She eyed for a long beat, then scoffed as she turned to walk away.
