Page 18 of The Daredevil

I was going to find out if Royce liked me.

CHAPTEREIGHT

ROYCE

I droppedmy belongings off at the lodge of Whitewater Family Resort and hopped into the Jeep, heading to the main office where the director, David, should arrive soon.

Thoughts swirled in my mind as I drove down the dirt path, memories from my time at Oregon State University studying geology and volcanology for my undergraduate and master’s. Volcanoes were my link to my past—my heritage. Studying them was understanding where I came from.

More than that, I was fascinated with things buried beneath the surface—magma and other natural resources of the world. People used oil and gas for energy, and I wondered if magma and lava could be used in a similar way. It had been a silly thought from a kid who wondered too much—a kid who wanted moreout of life. Even back then, I wanted the thrill, the excitement that made my blood roar.Only those undiscovered things beyond the surface offered me that thrill.

Exploring nature and seeing its danger and beauty was the closest thing to making me feel alive. My first time whitewater rafting was unbelievable. I got to see the various aspects of water, its gentleness, and its fierceness. Nature had both serenity and chaos. I appreciated the constant change that came with the wilderness.

During the summer months or wheneverI had breaks between studies, I worked at this resort, a family fun campground that offered hiking and whitewater rafting. It was here that I felt connected to nature in a way I hadn’t experienced before. The abundant forest and the sounds of the wild became my companions during those lonely moments.

This place anchored me because the wilderness reflected my emotions. When my mom passed away from liver failure, my life crumbled like the dried dirt in the ground. Nothing could hold it together. When I moved to another country to live with my aunt, I experienced another seasonal change—the gloom of fall followed by the depression of winter. I was uprooted, tossed into turbulent waves of trying to adapt to a new environment. Being in nature allowed me to see how everything could survive despite their differences and whatever weather was forecasted. Things tend to bloom of their own accord, and I let myself become a rock, a hawk, a tree—an aspect of nature that could withstand anything that came my way.

Mom had always loved the ocean, so Aunt Klara and I released her to the Atlantic Ocean, letting the wind and water take her wherever she wanted. Though Aunt Klara gave me love and support—she was wonderful, don’t get me wrong—it took me a while to adjust to this new life, new culture, and new language. I was like a fish out of water. But I eventually found my place and understanding when I experienced my first whitewater rafting. The rhythm and flow of the water and its sudden change in course symbolized my life. Some things weren’t in my control, and all I could do was go with the flow. I learned to appreciate the various aspects of the river—both the calm and the turbulence.

Despite how I felt anchored in nature, anger and resentment still warred inside me when it came to my family. I guess the forest gave me a safe place to go when I needed to calm my heart. Where was my dad? The memory of a five-year-old wasn’t great, and eventually, he faded from my mind. He left Mom and me, so he didn’t deserve my thoughts.

Mom never told me why he left, probably because she didn’t know. My hatred for him grew every time I saw her exhausted, napping on the couch or drinking too much. But I’d never forget how she’d read bedtime stories or took me to the park. Those precious memories enabled me to work towards my dream. Mom had worked hard to provide for me, allowing me to live comfortably with an excellent education. I missed her, and I blamed him for her death.

It was human nature to blame someone, right? That was how people thought—a rational way of finding solutions that made sense. Being outdoors was my temporary escape from the issues I had to deal with. My mind wandered back to why I was here in Oregon.

Who was to blame for the tourist’s death on my turf? Was it an accident? I didn’t rule that out, as there had been several minor accidents within Whitewater Family Resort. Accidents occurred, and that was normal, but not death.

I pulled the Jeep into the parking spot, got out, and surveyed the area. Business was closed for a few days for the police investigation and for my team to double-check their procedures, ensuring safety for everyone. Fall brought out hikers and campers because whitewater rafting ended a couple of weeks ago.

From my conversation with David, the deceased man probably slipped from one of the dangerous cliffs that weren’t listed on the usual trail route. There were varioushiking trails around this campground. Some were safe, while others required more skill. These were marked with an enormous sign stating “Do Not Enter.” But to some people, the warning became an invitation.

I had been one of those people who found the risk enticing until I broke an arm in a fall and learned my lesson. Sometimes you had to feel the pain to know it wasn’t worth it. It had taken me years to master this self-control—to resist that which posed a threat to me. I had moved on from that kind of recklessness and was now searching for something I didn’t even know. But I felt its tug, its silent whisper that nudged me to keep searching.

A leaf fell from a tree and floated in front of me. I grabbed the yellow maple leaf and twirled the stem around, reminding me of the impending fall season. Another year was coming to a close, and yet I still hadn’t found what I was looking for.

A teeny tiny part of me whispered,you already know, but you’re too scared to face it.I had no idea what it was talking about.

Settling in my office, David arrived and knocked on the open door.

“Come in. Sit.” I gestured.

“Good morning! For you.” He offered me a cup of coffee from the attached local café where his wife worked. “How was your flight?”

“Flight was smooth. Thanks for the coffee. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Susan insisted.” He sipped his coffee and sat on the chair in front of the desk. “She prepared a bag of muffins and bagels, but I told her you’re not a breakfast guy.”

In his fifties, David had brown hair mixed with gray and a kind face. He wore a puffy brown vest over a long-sleeve knit shirt and khaki pants—the same look he’d worn since I met him when I’d started working here in college.

“Things haven’t changed. I prefer lunch and dinner. Please thank Susan for me.”

David nodded. “James McNabb checked in to stay in one of our cabins. He came alone. He’s a seasoned hiker who’s been here before, so I’m not sure what happened. Maybe he slipped or saw an animal that startled him, causing him to trip and fall. It could be anything. Are you stopping by the police department?”

“After our meeting. Any new information I should know since we last talked?”

David shook his head. “No. His family is coming in a few days to have his body shipped back to Providence, Rhode Island.”

“He’s from Providence?” That couldn’t be a coincidence. “Did the police say anything else?”

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