He blinked.
“Yeah, it’s taking me a little time to process, too.” I glanced up at the mountains Alba slept between. Mountains I’d sworn I’d never see again.
“You got out? I figured you’d be career.”
So had I. Just another thing to mourn.
“Officer Malone?” a scratchy feminine voice called over the radio.
“Marilyn Lakewood still calls out dispatch? What is she, seventy?”
“Seventy-seven,” Gideon corrected. “And before you ask, Scott Malone is twenty-five and a giant pain in my ass.”
“What did you expect from the mayor’s kid?”
“Mayor’s kid? When’s the last time you talked to—”
“Officer Malone?” Marilyn repeated, her annoyance pitching her voice higher.
“Do you need to get that?” I motioned toward the radio on his shoulder.
“Malone needs to get that,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “It’s probably Genevieve Dawson whining about the Livingstons’ cat in her yard again. If it’s serious, Marilyn will call me. Now, fill me in. When did you get here? You’re back for good? As in you’ve moved back here? The place you called Satan’s as—”
“Xander called.” I cut him off with the half-truth before he could remind me of yet another reason I’d sworn I’d never come back here. “Since it had been six years, I answered.”
“Your dad,” Gideon said softly.
“My dad.”
A quiet moment of understanding passed between us.
“Gideon Hall!” Marilyn snapped through the radio.
“Lieutenant,” he whispered to the sky before responding. “Yes, Marilyn?”
“Since Boy Wonder isn’t answering the call, it seems that Dorothy Powers has lost Arthur Daniels again. She woke up from her nap, and he was gone.”
My stomach dropped, and my gaze drifted up the mountain. According to Xander, Dad ditched his home nurse a few times a week but never wandered far from the house. It didn’t help that Dorothy Powers was older than Dad and probably in need of her own nurse.
“On my way. Call up the usual searchers.” Gideon caught my eye, then dropped his hand from the radio.
“My dad.” How far could he have gotten?
“Second time this month.” His lips flattened. “I’m going to head to the station to grab the four-wheel drive. I won’t make it to your place in the cruiser.”
“Just hop in with me. I’ll take you up,” I more ordered than offered, unwilling to wait. My Jeep was lifted and sported massive tires, a V-8 engine, and more than enough four-wheeling capability to survive the apocalypse. Even the road to Dad’s wasn’t that bad this time of year.
He agreed, and a minute later, we pulled onto Gold Creek Drive, which served as the town’s main artery—no stoplights needed but snowmobiles optional.
“How long have you been gone?”
“Six years.” I shot him a look. Hadn’t I just answered that?
“No, I mean today. When did you leave the house? Was Dorothy awake? Was your dad?” He was already thumbing through his cell phone.
“I wish I could help you with a timeline, but I haven’t been home yet.” I motioned toward the back seat of the four-door Rubicon.
“You literally just pulled into town?” He took in the bags and boxes that had been my only companions on the two-thousand-mile drive.
“Yep,” I replied as we passed the last post-fifties building in Alba. We crossed the bridge that spanned all thirty feet of Rowan Creek, and the snow-packed pavement ended, marking our entrance into the time capsule that kept Alba alive. “Figured it was a good idea to gas up. Someone told me once that it’s easier to run from the cops on a full tank.”
Main Street opened up on my left. Wooden buildings with metal roofs lined both sides of the dirt road that would fill with tourists in the next few months, all looking to experience a real 1890s old west mining town.
“Someone grew up. Also, please don’t make me chase you. This thing is a beast. I might have to tell Julie I’ve found the perfect birthday present.”
“Sure, if you get it with a ladder.” We turned at the Hamilton place, where the grant money for preservation had run dry. Snow sat piled in the shade against structures that had long since lost their roofs, windows, or walls.
“Shut up. Not all of us are six foot four.”
“It’s all in the genetics. At least it should make Dad easier to spot.”
“He’s been easy to find, but Cam… It’s gotten pretty bad,” Gideon told me as we pulled onto Rose Rowan Road and started to climb in elevation. “The last couple times I’ve seen him, he either hasn’t known who I am or he thinks I’m Dad.”
My hands flexed on the wheel. “Xander’s reached his limit. He basically told me to get back here or Dad was getting shipped to a home in Buena Vista, which would screw Dad’s whole ‘your mother died in this house and I will, too’ vow.”
“Hold that thought.” He held the phone to his face. “Hey, Mrs. Powers. Yep, it’s Gideon.” He paused, rubbing the skin just above his nose. “I know you are. I know you do. We’re going to find him, and we’ve got some searchers on their— Oh, she is? Good. That will help. We’re about four minutes out.”
I took the final turn onto Dad’s property and cursed at the conditions. Spring runoff was always hard on the drive, but it looked like it hadn’t been maintained in years. Washboarding, which was no doubt under the packed snow, was easy enough to fix, but the deep, canyon-like trenches carved out by the mini river currently eating away the right side of the drive were going to take some effort to repair.
Not that I hadn’t seen shittier roads in Afghanistan or any of the other places I was never supposed to be, but this was my fucking driveway.
Gideon hung up as I came to a stop and put the Jeep into four-wheel drive.
“How does Dorothy get up here every day?” I asked as we started the ascent. The Jeep rocked with enough force to jostle the boxes in the back, and Gideon braced himself on the roll bar as we made it around a shady, iced curve. That particular spot was always the last to melt.
“She cuts over from the Bradley property. You know the judge keeps his drive paved and clear.”
The land was adjacent to ours, but it would have added ten minutes, and I wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing…or Bradleys.
God, if there was anyone in the world who had the right to hate me more than I hated myself, it was—