Page 86 of Swept for Forever
Finally, a lifeguard barely old enough to shave offered aname. He said he’d seen her once. Months back. “Real fast swimmer,” he added.
That’s when the defense line formed. A group of young women—tight circle, clipped answers, and one with a glare sharp enough to peel paint off a locker.
“She’s not around,” the tall one said.
“You need to leave,” another snapped.
“If you keep asking, we’ll report you,” the third added, flipping her phone like a threat.
So much for being taught about stranger danger.
I could’ve pushed harder, flashed a badge I didn’t carry, or leaned on authority I’d long since walked away from. But I didn’t want her to be found that way.
Still, I left with one thing I hadn’t had before.
Her name was real. Autumn Jones.
This time, I didn’t start with a screen. I hit the streets and did the same drill I’d done in Cheyenne, knocking on every Jones household I could find. Boise was three times the size, and it came with three times the weird.
One guy opened the door wearing ski goggles, and another asked if I was there for the séance.
But not one of them had seen or known her.
By the time I got back to my truck, I was strung out and sweat-slicked, my nerves scraped raw. I yelled straight into the wheel. Two elderly women across the lot hurried off like I was waving a knife around.
If you dig in mud, you get mud.
My old man used to say that. And for once, he might’ve been right. Not that I was about to admit it.
Because this wasn’t just mud.
This was an obsession. A slow bleed I couldn’t staunch.
I’d wasted days and burned fuel. Boise hadn’t given me ashred of progress except sore knuckles from knocking on too many wrong doors.
And I realized something else. If she had trained or competed here, she might’ve lived anywhere. Meridian. Caldwell. Kuna. Any of the small towns dotting this side of Idaho.
The whole damn state had just become my crime scene.
I scrubbed a hand down my face as my migraine started to dismantle me. Another day was over, and I returned to the motel empty-handed.
My migraine had loosenedits grip by morning. But the rest of it was still a mess.
Maybe it was time to stop and let the law do its job. Let justice find her. Let my over-caffeinated brain accept what my heart refused to.
She wasn’t mine.
I should go home.
Home.
That word didn’t fit. Not yet.
I’d bought that place because I was supposed to be settling in, planting roots, and making a life in Buffaloberry Hill. If I were being honest with myself, I’d imagined her in it too.
But the walls were still bare, still undecided. Moss green or cream. We’d made a bet, and she’d won. Right then, I would’ve done anything to honor it, to let her pick the color, and to watch her grin with that little victory face she made when she knew she had me. It had felt like we were sharing the space, like I was already sharing my life with her.
Now, I wasn’t sure if I wanted moss green after all.
