One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(65)

Bit by bit, I pick my way around the uneven perimeter. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, just evidence of human occupation.

Nothing immediately jumps out. And yet the space doesn’t feel abandoned to me.

Then I come across the first gap in the wall.

Two huge boulders toppled against each other, leaving a V of empty space between them. It’s tall enough for me to wedge myself through.

To where? Another void? Or a tighter and tighter space till my chest compresses and my lungs seize up, and I . . .

I can’t go there. At the thought alone, my hands are shaking so hard I’ve turned my flashlight into a disco ball. I’m breathing too shallowly, my heart starting to race. All at once, this space is too dark, too scary, too empty for me.

Forget snakes. I am already in a grave. If I can’t reach the opening above, claw my way out, Bob and Marty will never know. They’ll walk right over the top of me. Then they’ll be gone and it’s not Marty who will be joining his son forever in Devil’s Canyon.

Why did I come to Wyoming? Why do I keep doing this to myself? Paul is dead but I’m still chasing the bullet, waiting for it to finally punch into my gut, spill my own blood. All these searches, these strangers I help find and bury. It never changes anything.

Other people find closure, other people move on. Not me. Every place I arrive, I already see myself leave. Every door that opens, I already know will close.

I don’t want to be me anymore. I want to be the kind of person who falls in love and stays. Who has a job other people actually understand. Who returns night after night to a place I call home.

I want to build a time machine and go back to the night my father and I went camping. Except this time, I won’t be hungry. My father won’t have to head to the kitchen and pretend magic wood sprites are fixing us dinner. Instead, he and I will stay next to our adorably unstable tent. We’ll gaze up at the sky and watch the stars appear. We’ll share stories and he’ll know what he’s saying and who he’s saying it to.

He’ll remain himself with me.

Maybe I’ll lean my head against his shoulder. He’ll pat me on the top of my head. And then we’ll fall silent. We’ll just be.

My entire life, I have always wanted to just be.

I’m crying. I can feel the moisture on my cheeks. More salt tracks through the endless layers of grime. I don’t know why. There’s no point to my tears, no use in wishing for the lessons I never learned.

I’m a drunk who followed in her father’s footsteps.

Until one day he was dead. And I became sober.

Now I live every day, spinning and wanting and wishing. But sober. Each and every day.

Even when it hurts.

I look up at the opening above. It appears too high, too hard. But my panic is receding, my resolve returning. If I can go each and every minute without taking another drink, then I sure as hell can do this.

I’ve seen what I needed to see. Someone could’ve very well been hiding here, waiting for Neil. Furthermore, there are more than just the caves in the cliff wall for taking cover; there appears to be at least some kind of warren of subterranean hideouts.

Most likely, Scott was telling the truth and someone else attacked Neil, then disappeared into this hidey-hole without any of us being the wiser.

Someone who wasn’t just watching us, but knows this area intimately. An enraged local? Ghost of a past hiker?

Or Timothy O’Day himself? Having made it this far, maybe he did survive. And all these years, he’s waited for his revenge?

That doesn’t make sense to me either. But one thing’s for certain. I’m climbing my scrawny ass out of this damn tomb. Then I’m racing like hell toward Marty and Bob. Not just to tell them what I’ve learned, but to warn them as well.

Danger is everywhere.

And we’re much more vulnerable than we knew.





CHAPTER 26





I’m a panting, heaving, sweaty mess by the time I careen into Bob. He’s standing outside the opening of a large cave when I crash into him. He grabs my shoulders reflexively, then widens his eyes at my disheveled appearance.

“Rocks. Air pockets. Den below. Caves above. Hideouts. Everywhere,” I manage to gasp out. I can’t breathe. I’ve been running ever since I crawled my way out of the underground chamber. The climb up to the opening hadn’t been so bad, with the craggy rocks providing plenty of handholds. Having to wriggle back into the exposed sun, however, wondering if our watcher was standing there, waiting for me. With a gun. Or a knife. Or a venomous snake.

It had taken me nearly as much mental fortitude to force myself out of the subterranean cavern as it had taken me to blindly plummet into it. Then, standing up, my shoulder blades starting to itch, the fine hairs standing up on my arms . . . I’d grabbed my pack and bolted north. Veering around boulders, stumbling up rock piles, just running, running, running. The hunted hare desperate to reach safety.

“You’re okay,” Bob says. “I got you. Here.” He reaches around me to remove my water bottle from the side pocket of my pack and hand it to me. I unscrew the top and drink desperately, water spilling down my chin in filthy rivulets.

“Stop.” Bob pries the metal bottle from my hand. When my breathing has calmed another notch, he gives it back. “Now, come inside where it’s cooler. You can talk to Marty and me at the same time. Something about air pockets?”