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Chapter no 2 – VANCE

Crimson River (The Edens, #5)

Wย here the hell was my wallet? I patted my jeans pocket for the tenth time, then scanned the bedroom again. It wasnโ€™t on the nightstand. Iโ€™d put it on the nightstand. The damn thing couldnโ€™t have sprouted legs and walked away.

โ€œFor fuckโ€™s sake.โ€ I didnโ€™t have time to search for my wallet when I needed to get on the road, but before I could get on the road, I needed my fucking wallet.

โ€œTiff,โ€ I hollered, pinching the bridge of my nose.

She emerged from the hallway and stood in the doorway, hazel eyes still blazing from our argument. โ€œWhat?โ€

โ€œMy wallet. Have you seen it?โ€ She pursed her lips.

โ€œTiff,โ€ I clipped. Did she really think if she kept me here long enough, Iโ€™d change my mind?

She huffed and fished my wallet from her back pocket. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it on the bed so it landed beside my backpack and suitcase.

I gritted my teeth, holding back a snide comment. โ€œThanks.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re really going.โ€ She crossed her arms over her chest, her nostrils flaring.

โ€œI have to go.โ€ I swept up my wallet, tucking it in my own pocket, then slung my backpack over a shoulder. The zipperโ€™s seams were stretched to the max. The same was true for my suitcase. Not having any idea how long Iโ€™d be in Montana, Iโ€™d erred on the side of too much rather than not enough.

โ€œI mean it, Vance. I wonโ€™t be here when you get back.โ€

Sheโ€™d said the same earlier after Iโ€™d told her I was going to Montana. It hadnโ€™t really surprised me, probably because Iโ€™d been expecting it for, well . . . a long time.

โ€œYou donโ€™t have anything to say?โ€ she asked.

No. No, I didnโ€™t. And my silence only heightened her frustration.

She threw a hand in the air. โ€œWhen are you going to give this up?โ€ โ€œNever,โ€ I whispered.

Until my dying day, I would never give up this search. Everyone else had stopped looking for Cormac. Everyone else had abandoned Norah and the girls. They deserved justice. They deserved vengeance.

There was no giving up.

โ€œYou wonโ€™t find him,โ€ she said. โ€œI might.โ€

โ€œHeโ€™s. Gone.โ€ She punched each word, like volume alone would make me believe them.

He wasnโ€™t gone. That son of a bitch didnโ€™t get to be gone.

Maybe this lead would turn into nothing, just like every other lead Iโ€™d followed in the past four years. But if there was even the slightest chance I could catch Cormacโ€™s trail, then Iโ€™d take it.

I hefted my suitcase off the mattress, moving for the door, but Tiff shifted and blocked my path.

โ€œI canโ€™t do this anymore.โ€ Her chin began to quiver. โ€œI canโ€™t stay here and wait while you chase your demons.โ€

โ€œThen donโ€™t.โ€

When weโ€™d first gotten together, Tiff had encouraged me to go. But at some point in the past three years, sheโ€™d become just like everyone else. She wanted me to let it go and move on with my life.

I couldnโ€™t move on. Iย wouldnโ€™t.ย And if she didnโ€™t understand that, well . . .

โ€œLeave the keys on the counter.โ€ We were over. Weโ€™d been over. It was time to stop pretending like we had a future together.

โ€œThatโ€™s it?โ€ Her eyes flooded. โ€œI tell you Iโ€™m moving out and you ask me to leave the keys on the counter?โ€

Yes.ย โ€œI need to go,โ€ I said, jerking my chin for her to get out of the

way.

She shifted, just enough for me to slide past, then followed me down

the hallway. โ€œYou never would have done this before the shooting.โ€ My jaw clenched. โ€œThis has nothing to do with the shooting.โ€ โ€œVance.โ€

I sighed, turning to face her. โ€œWhat?โ€

โ€œPlease donโ€™t go.โ€ Tears glistened in her eyes. โ€œStay. Stay with me.โ€ This was why we were over.

If she truly loved me, sheโ€™d never ask me to stay.

I set my suitcase and backpack on the floor, then put my hands on her shoulders. โ€œIโ€™m sorry.โ€

I was sorry that I wasnโ€™t the man she needed. I was sorry that I couldnโ€™t be the man sheโ€™d expected. I was sorry that I didnโ€™t love her too.

โ€œI love you.โ€ A tear fell down her cheek. I didnโ€™t catch it.

โ€œBye, Tiff.โ€ I stepped away as a sob escaped her mouth. Then I collected my bags and, without a backward glance, walked to the garage. My gun was already loaded in the glove box of my truck, so with my things in the back seat, I climbed behind the wheel and took off.

Maybe I should have hurt, knowing that Tiff would be gone when I got home. Instead, I felt . . . relieved.

Tiff was a good woman whoโ€™d helped me through a hard period in my life. Sheโ€™d filled a void, for a time. Sheโ€™d made me laugh when Iโ€™d thought it impossible. But she deserved a man who loved her entirely.

That man wasnโ€™t me.

Maybe she was right. Maybe this endless search for Cormac was ruining my life. It sure as hell had taken a toll on my job. But I wasnโ€™t going to stop. So I put Coeur dโ€™Alene in my rearview mirror and raced along the interstate toward Montana.

It was a three-hour trip to Quincy, meaning if I hurried, Iโ€™d arrive before dark with time to poke around town and get my bearings. Iโ€™d already called ahead for a hotel room, booking it for a week. With any luck, Iโ€™d pick up Cormacโ€™s trail by then.

This lead was the closest Iโ€™d ever been to finding that slippery bastard. It had been two days since the APB had been issued, and while two days was plenty for him to disappear, maybe heโ€™d gotten complacent. Maybe he wouldnโ€™t feel the need to rush. Or maybe he hadnโ€™t left Montana at all.

Iโ€™d spent four years chasing Cormac Gallagher. From Washington to Utah to Oregon to Colorado, the man had proved impossible to find. Heโ€™d beaten me at every turn. But this time around, something felt different.

How long had he been in Montana? Why had he come so close to Idaho? Had he been hiding right under my nose for months? Years?

Or would this turn out to be another dead end?

Three years ago, Iโ€™d followed a lead to Colorado. Police had reported a man matching Cormacโ€™s description. Red hair. Brown eyes. Same build and

height. But that man hadnโ€™t had a scarred cheek, and when Iโ€™d found him hiding in a ramshackle house in the mountains outside of Fort Collins, Iโ€™d turned him over to the authorities, then come home and drowned myself in a bottle of cheap whiskey.

Six months later, Iโ€™d followed a lead to Utah. Another bust. Four months later, Iโ€™d been in Washington. Three months after that, Oregon. Iโ€™d spent four years traipsing around the Pacific Northwest, following any lead. Chances were, my trip to Montana would be another wasted trip.

Except the all-points bulletin from Quincy had clearly described a man with a scar. None of the others had given that much detail.

This time, it would be different. It had to be different.

I pulled out my phone to call Dad. The minute it started ringing through the truckโ€™s speakers, my grip tightened on the wheel.ย Go to voicemail.

โ€œHello,โ€ he answered. I sighed. โ€œHey, Dad.โ€

โ€œHold on a sec.โ€ There was a rustling noise in the background. Then came the sound of a door opening and closing. โ€œWhatโ€™s going on?โ€

There was an echo, like heโ€™d closed himself in the garage.

That was usually how it sounded when weโ€™d talk. Either heโ€™d disappear to the garage or heโ€™d go outside so he could talk to me where Mom wouldnโ€™t overhear.

How had it come to this? How had I become the villain?

โ€œIโ€™m heading to Montana. Might be gone a week or two,โ€ I told him, knowing he wouldnโ€™t ask why or how long Iโ€™d be gone.

Asking too many questions might cross that invisible line drawn between me and my family. Besides, Dad knew why I left town. And like Tiff, he thought I should have moved on years ago.

โ€œAll right,โ€ he murmured.

โ€œI left in a hurry. Would you mind taking the trash to the curb on Wednesday?โ€

โ€œWhat about Tiff?โ€ โ€œSheโ€™s moving out.โ€

โ€œOh.โ€ He paused. โ€œOkay.โ€

โ€œAnd would you mind grabbing my mail every few days? Just so it doesnโ€™t pile up.โ€

โ€œSure.โ€

โ€œThanks, Dad.โ€

โ€œYep.โ€ He ended the call.

These stinted, abrupt conversations had become normal. And somehow, that was my fault.

Next time I left, Iโ€™d call a friend to check on the house.

I set my phone aside and focused on the road, taking in the landscape along the way. Plenty of mountains. Dense evergreen forests. This part of Montana wasnโ€™t all that different from Idaho. Maybe that was why Cormac had returned. Heโ€™d wanted a taste of home.

The only thing he deserved to taste was three squares a day from a prison cafeteria.

Fuck, but I hoped this lead was something real. Hope was a dangerous game for a man like me, especially where Cormac was concerned. But with every passing mile, it stirred, building and swelling in my very bones.

By the time I arrived in Quincy, my muscles were jittery. My fingers drummed on the steering wheel as the highway slowed, turning into Main Street. As I eased down the road, I soaked in the small town like a sponge.

The Eloise Inn, the hotel where Iโ€™d booked a room, was the tallest building in sight, interrupting the jagged mountain horizon in the distance. Businesses, restaurants and a couple of bars filled the downtown area.

The lampposts that lit the sidewalks were wrapped in twinkle lights. Store windows were decked out in autumn dรฉcor, pumpkins and potted mums and vibrant leaves.

As I passed a hardware store, I made a mental note to stop by and pick up a map of the local area. Digital maps and GPS worked for some, but Iโ€™d always preferred paper.

My mentor had taught me that.

Heโ€™d also taught me that time was critical. If a suspect had too much of a head start, catching up became impossible. The APB had been posted Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, it was Sunday. But two days was faster than any of the other leads Iโ€™d found.

Maybe Cormac thought that after four years, the world had forgotten about his crimes. Maybe heโ€™d gotten comfortable wherever it was he was hiding. Maybe if heโ€™d built a shelter, settled into the area, he might not be as quick to leave.

A string of maybes. That was all I had. It would have to be enough.

I parked on Main, taking my bags from the back of my silver Dodge and hauling them into The Eloise Inn. The desk clerk checked me in efficiently, sending me to my room on the fourth floor with two keys and restaurant recommendations for dinner.

I was too anxious to eat much, so rather than stop by Knuckles, the hotelโ€™s restaurant, I dropped my bags in my room, then headed outside.

โ€œHowdy.โ€ A man nodded as I passed him on the sidewalk outside the hotel.

โ€œEvening.โ€ I dipped my chin, already liking Quincyโ€™s friendly atmosphere and the fact that here, I was a nameless, faceless stranger.

Iโ€™d hardly left the house in the past two weeks because of the recent media attention. The one time Iโ€™d gone to the grocery store, Iโ€™d gotten plenty of sideways glances. The cashier had flat-out asked me if I wasย that cop.

Until that shitstorm died down, I was more than happy to spend my days in Montana.

Ironic, that Iโ€™d started my career to stand apart. To be one of the heroes. To wear my gleaming badge with pride. These days, the last thing I wanted was attention. And my badge had a tarnish that no amount of polishing seemed to erase.

Exactly why Iโ€™d left it behind.

I crossed Main, heading for the coffee shop. The small green building had a sandwich board out front advertising todayโ€™s specials.ย Mocha latte. Ham, apple and swiss panini. Pumpkin chocolate chip cookies.ย The words were written in chunky block letters, each adorned with swirly flowers.

The shopโ€™s large, black-paned windows consumed most of the street- facing wall, giving patrons a clear view of the sidewalk and street. In the evening light, they acted like a mirror, reflecting the cars that passed as well as people walking by, me included.

Goddamn, I looked like shit. I dragged a hand through my hair, attempting to tame the dark strands. It needed a cut, and I hadnโ€™t shaved in a few days. The stubble on my jaw was thick. Maybe Iโ€™d leave it, grow a beard.

Tiff hated beards.

That didnโ€™t matter anymore. And a beard might distract from the dark circles beneath my eyes. Sleep had been light since, well . . . I couldnโ€™t remember the last time Iโ€™d slept for more than four or five hours in a row.

I finger combed my hair one more time, but the effort was futile, so I straightened the collar of my plaid jacket before reaching the coffee shopโ€™s door.

Eden Coffeeย was written on its face in gold lettering. I pulled it open and breathed in the scent of coffee and food. Good food. My stomach growled. Guess I was hungry.

Iโ€™d been in the middle of lunch with my laptop when Iโ€™d come across the Quincy Police Departmentโ€™s APB. That meal had been abandoned in the trash, and I hadnโ€™t stopped again once Iโ€™d hit the road.

The shopโ€™s walls were the same deep green as the exterior, giving it a warm, inviting feel. Wooden tables and chairs filled the space on either side of the aisle that led to a counter at the back of the cafรฉ.

The glass display case overflowed with pastries and desserts. The espresso machineโ€™s hiss dulled the conversation from the occupied tables. My boots thudded on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the counter.

The barista wore a pine-green apron. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck. She had thick, winged eyeliner and her lips were stained purple. Not plum or wine, purple, like a grape jellybean.

She held up a finger as she finished steaming her jug of milk. โ€œGive me one minute.โ€

โ€œSure.โ€ I nodded, scanning the large chalkboard menu mounted to the wall behind the counter.

A table in the far corner beside the glass windows would give me an open view of Main and also provide a decent workspace. Better than the cramped desk in my hotel room.

โ€œWhat can I get you?โ€ the barista asked.

โ€œHam and swiss panini, please. And a, uh . . .โ€ I peered into the display case. โ€œWhatโ€™s your favorite thing in there?โ€

โ€œItโ€™s all good, but I think Lyla is just finishing a batch of her cowboy cookies. Highly recommend.โ€ She pinched her fingers together and did a chefโ€™s kiss.

โ€œSold.โ€ I dug out my wallet, handing over a twenty just as a woman emerged from the hallway that led deeper into the building.

She carried a tray of cookies, her hands covered in tangerine oven mitts. Her apron was the same pine-green shade as the baristaโ€™s. A dusting

of flour covered her heart and there was a one-inch streak on her forehead, above her delicate right eyebrow.

Her cheeks were flushed the same pretty shade of pink as her soft pout. A tendril of dark hair had escaped the messy knot on the top of her head and swept across her temple.

My hand lifted, acting on its own, either to tuck that lock of hair behind an ear or wipe away the flour streak.

Her sapphire-blue eyes darted to me as she set the tray on the counter, then pulled off the oven mitts.

Even with the two black eyes sheโ€™d tried her best to cover with makeup, she was breathtaking.

She offered me a small smile before dropping her chin into the chunky scarf wrapped around her neck as she began adding cookies to the display case. That scarf was thick, but the bruises on the long column of her throat seemed determined to make an appearance. They peeked out beneath her dainty jaw.

Black eyes. Bruised throat. Clear signs that someone had wrapped their hands around her neck.

The APB from the local authorities had described Cormac perfectly. Better than any previous report. The bulletin had stated that he was a suspect in an attempted murder but hadnโ€™t listed a means.

Strangulation, maybe? That was fitting. And according to the APB, this crime had occurred outside of Quincy, in the wilderness. Cormacโ€™s playground.

There was a chance this woman had nothing to do with him. That I was simply desperate. But Iโ€™d listened to my gut for a long, long time. And it was shouting that she was the one whoโ€™d crossed Cormacโ€™s path.

โ€œHere you go.โ€ The barista set a plate on the counter with my sandwich, some chips, a pickle and one of those fresh cookies. โ€œAnything to drink?โ€

โ€œWater. Please.โ€

โ€œYou got it.โ€ She nodded, then put her hand on the other womanโ€™s shoulder. โ€œI can finish with the cookies, Lyla.โ€

She nodded as the barista walked to the sink against the back to fill me a glass of water. But she didnโ€™t abandon those cookies. She kept putting them in the display case.

Lyla. Beautiful name. Beautiful woman. Too beautiful to be covered in bruises.

It was just another sin that Cormac would suffer for. Iโ€™d make that bastard pay for what heโ€™d done to the girls. To Norah. And to Lyla.

She noticed me staring. That flush in her cheeks brightened. โ€œCan I help you?โ€

Her voice was raspy. Raw. Barely a whisper. โ€œYeah.โ€ I nodded. โ€œI think you can.โ€

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