Page 27 of In the Dark of the Past

She looked past me, toward the ruined window. “What if someone wanted to keep people away from the real scene?”

That same chill from earlier crawled down my spine.

“I want to check it out,” I said quietly. “Tomorrow. First light. Want to come?”

She hesitated. “With the others?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. The more people who know, the more likely someone else finds out. If this is connected to the things we’re digging into...we can’t risk tipping our hand. Not until we know more.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay. Just us, then.”

A beat of silence stretched between us.

Then she added, her voice soft, “It feels weird, doesn’t it? I want it to be nothing, but I also kind of hope it’s something.”

I understood that feeling too well. “You’re not alone in that. I want answers. For Eleanor. For Mr. Jenkins and the rest of her family. Hell, for you. I think anyone in the group would say the same.”

She looked up at me, and for a second, all the fear and exhaustion in her expression dropped away, replaced by something raw and open.

“Thank you, Finn.”

I looked down at her, my chest tight, my heart flipping a little with surprise. “You don’t have to thank me, River. We’ve got this.” The honesty in that statement, the implied you-and-me, shocked me a bit.

Neither of us said anything else.

We didn’t have to.

But we both felt it. I knew we did.

Something had shifted.

Whether it was just that we were both coming to realize that we lived in the same town now and were part of the same things, or if it was more, remained to be seen.

As a deputy called to say they were wrapping up, and River turned to duck under the police tape and go inside, I lingered at the edge of the sidewalk, glancing once more at that faint scrape by the broken glass. My brain kept circling the same unspoken question:

What had Eleanor been afraid of out there on that trail? Was it just that old urban legend ? Was it more? Other? And why had no one listened?

Tomorrow, we’d walk it. Just River and me. No distractions. No noise.

And if the past was still waiting in those woods?

We’d be ready to meet it.

Chapter Eleven

River

The sun hadn’t even cleared the ridge when I pulled up to the trailhead. The air was thick with the scent of pine needles, wet soil, and something sharp and earthy—decay buried under memory.

Finn was already waiting, leaning against his SUV with a thermos in one hand and his jaw set like he hadn’t slept. His hair was damp from a shower, and his uniform shirt looked like it had been ironed by pure force of will—the creases almost too precise.

“You’re early,” I said, tucking my keys into the pocket of my cargo pants as I approached.

“So are you,” he replied, handing me the thermos without being asked.

I took a sip. Black, hot, strong. The way we both drank it. The familiarity was a little too easy.

The gravel crunched beneath our boots as we headed toward the trailhead. A few cars were parked at the edge of the lot, windows fogged with the memory of warmth. A woman stood beside one of them—athletic leggings, windbreaker, hair scraped into a high ponytail. She stretched one calf, then the other, but her eyes kept flicking toward us. Not curious. Not friendly. Just… assessing.