Page 28 of In the Dark of the Past

Her gaze dipped to Finn. Then to me. Then back to him again, like she was running a comparison she wasn’t meant to. “Morning,” she said as we approached, her smile bright but too crisp.

Finn tipped his chin. “Morning.”

She held his gaze a moment longer than casual trailhead politeness required. “Out early, Sheriff.”

“Looks that way,” he replied, tone unreadable.

I gave a polite nod as we passed, but she didn’t return it—at least not to me. Instead, she gave Finn one last quick once-over, as if committing him to memory.

“Enjoy your hike,” she called lightly, opening her car door.

When we reached the trail register, I leaned in, voice low. “Friend of yours?”

Finn snorted under his breath. “Not really. Jordyn Vale. One of my new deputies.”

“Seemed…observant.”

“That’s one word for it.” His jaw worked, a flicker tightening the edges of his expression. “She applied to every department within fifty miles. Maple Ridge was the one that hired her, and I think it had more to do with her lineage than her qualifications.”

“Huh.” I glanced back toward her car. She stood half in, half out, typing quickly into her phone. “Is she always that…intense?”

Finn gave the kind of shrug that wasn’t a shrug at all, more a performance of indifference instead of the real thing. “She’s eager. Tries hard.”

Tries too hard sat on the back of my tongue, but I swallowed it. “She stared at you like she was checking for a serial number.”

That earned a faint, unwilling laugh. “Yeah. She does that.”

There was something he wasn’t saying, but the moment passed as he nudged his chin toward the trail.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get a move on.”

I followed, but the prickling at the back of my spine didn’t fade, though I wasn’t entirely sure of its cause. We fell into step easily, no need to say where we were heading. The path wound behind the old fire road, where the canopy thickened and the trail narrowed to a footpath barely wider than our shoulders. Birdsong echoed through the trees—too cheerful for the weight the morning carried.

“I used to hate this trail,” I admitted after a few minutes of silence. “Dad dragged me out here occasionally when I was sulking or being a teenage pain in the ass.”

Finn glanced over. “He ever say why he chose this one?”

“Not really. Just said it was ‘quiet in the right way.’ Whatever that means.”

Finn’s brow furrowed. “That’s almost exactly what Eleanor’s husband said about it, despite him also saying that Eleanor also felt like it was just slightly off. Clearly, that didn’t stop her from coming here.”

We walked a little longer in silence before I asked, “Do you ever stop being a cop in your head?”

He shot me a half-smile. “Do you ever stop being a psychologist?”

“Touché.”

“Besides,” he added, “you’re the one who brought a freaking notebook on a hike.” He jerked his chin in my direction.

“It’s called preparation, Callahan. You should try it sometime.”

That earned me a low laugh, warm and slightly unexpected. It tugged at something I wasn’t ready to think about.

After another half mile, the trail dipped sharply, the forest swallowing us in shadow. Fallen branches crisscrossed the path, and I stumbled, catching myself on a cedar trunk slick with moss.

Finn reached out automatically, steadying me.

And he didn’t let go right away.