Page 24 of My Mountain Man Stalker
“You owe me a bottle for this one,” he replies. Paper shuffles on his end, a faint keyboard clatter. “Liam popped up on a camera two towns over. Gas station near Route 39. Hoodie, ball cap, kept his head down. Facial match isn’t perfect, but the gait is good and the clerk remembered the scar by his ear.”
My grip tightens. “When?”
“Last night. Eleven twenty-three. He was driving a dark SUV with rental plates. Guess where he didn’t buy it?”
“Here.”
“Bingo. He’s not stupid. He’s circling.”
I stare into the trees until they blur, forcing my jaw unclench. “Micah?”
“Already in motion,” Nate says. “He’s been shadowing a biker crew that runs favors for Liam’s money man. If the crew moves south, we’ll have a breadcrumb trail.”
“And the other thing?” My voice goes lower. I already know I’m not going to like the answer.
Nate sighs. “Three girls flagged as missing in the last six days from that same cluster of towns. Two reported, one not—sister’s afraid to go to the sheriff. The reported pair are locals. Waitress and a hairdresser. The unreported one is a college kid renting a cabin with friends—went to ‘meet someone’ and didn’t come back.”
I close my eyes. “Any overlap with the SD card victims?”
“Too soon to tell,” he says, tired and pissed in equal measure. “But the pattern smells right. Short-term rentals. Cash pickups. No cameras where there should be cameras.”
“Liam’s testing the perimeter,” I say.
“He’s finishing something,” Nate replies. “And if he thinks Wren’s alive and carrying that card, he’ll come to you. He’ll make it a point.”
“Let him,” I say, meaning it.
There’s a beat of silence. Nate knows that tone. “I’ll keep you updated. You need anything?”
“Yeah,” I say. “If Micah finds the SUV, I want the address before the sheriff does.”
“Done.” Nate pauses, then adds quietly, “Don’t make me bury you, Hale.”
“Wouldn’t dare,” I say, and cut the line.
The door creaks behind me. I don’t have to look to know it’s her. Wren’s footsteps are soft and sure now, like she lives here for real.
“You’re doing your ghost calls again,” she says, leaning on the frame with that half-grin that’s more challenge than humor. Thewind tugs a strand of hair across her mouth. I want to tuck it behind her ear.
“Checking on a few things,” I say, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her closer.
She leans back, studying me. She’s getting good at it—reading the micro-cracks in my armor. “You get answers?”
“Some.”
Her eyes flick to the phone, then back to me. She doesn’t push out here. Just nudges my shoulder with hers before heading inside. “You’re cooking,” she announces like it’s law. “And not jerky.”
“I was thinking venison and potatoes,” I say.
“Sold. I’ll chop.”
Inside, the cabin smells like wood and iron and the faint sweetness of her. I set two cast irons on the stove, splash in oil, and season the meat while she handles onions and rosemary with a concentration that makes me want to lean in and bite the corner of her smile. She hums something aimless, hips bumping the cabinet in rhythm. The domesticity shouldn’t fit here, in a place built for silence and steel, but it does. Somehow, she’s softened the angles without dulling them.
“You almost look happy when you cook,” she says, sliding the onions into the pan. They hiss, perfume lifting warm and sharp.
“I look less murderous,” I correct.
She grins. “Semantics.”
