Page 38 of In the Dark of the Past

We sprinted, long grass whipping our legs, breath stinging our lungs. Once the cruiser came into view, we broke into a full run, dove inside, and quietly pulled the doors shut.

River braced her hands on her knees for a second, panting. Then she laughed—a harsh, incredulous sound. “Well. That was illuminating,” she said breathlessly. “In that ‘I-need-a-therapy-session-and-a-drink’ kind of way.”

“No arguments here.”

Her shoe had bent awkwardly from the sprint, and she fixed it absently, her hands trembling a bit. “That eye symbol,” she said quietly, “isn’t just tagging. It’s communication.”

“Agreed.”

“And the Fund…Finn, whatever they’re doing, it’s not just corruption. It’s dangerous. Deadly.”

I stared through the windshield at the empty road ahead. My pulse still hadn’t slowed.

She reached out—instinctively and without looking—and her fingers brushed mine. A small touch. Electric. Anchoring and destabilizing at the same time.

I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Too much was rattling in my head—my name in their mouths, the threat against the guy’s wife, the realization that someone inside Maple Ridge’s decision-making circles was actively orchestrating something violent.

As I started the engine, the Lodge Hall receded in the mirror, shrinking but not losing its weight.

River exhaled shakily. “We’re really in this now, aren’t we?”

I didn’t answer immediately, but the truth settled heavily in the cab. We weren’t just pulling a few threads anymore. We were unraveling the whole damn sweater.

And someone out there already knew more than we wanted them to.

Chapter Fifteen

River

By the time Finn pulled up at my place, my pulse had finally come down from DEFCON run-for-your-life—but only barely. The Lodge Hall was miles behind us, yet the sense of being watched clung to my skin like humidity before a summer storm. Every shadow felt sharper. Every sound too intentional.

Finn killed the engine but didn’t move. The cruiser ticked as it cooled—the sound oddly loud in the small, suspended silence between us. His hands stayed locked on the wheel, knuckles pale, shoulders coiled tight. Like if he let himself breathe, everything inside him might shake loose.

“Thanks for the assist,” I said softly. “Would’ve been awkward to explain to the county why I was lurking around their secret meeting spot.”

He huffed out a humorless breath. “Yeah. Not exactly a group known for transparency.” His jaw flexed, a tell—quick and sharp. Then, he said, “You okay?”

God, the question shouldn’t have hit as deep as it did. But he didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t give me the softened version. And he didn’t look at me when he asked, like caring was dangerous and he knew it.

“I’m fine,” I lied, unbuckling. “You?”

Nothing. For a long moment, his silence felt like another presence in the car. Then he shifted, turning toward me. The interior light blinked on, painting him in amber. He looked exhausted—bone-deep tired. Not from running or adrenaline, but from carrying years of weight he couldn’t set down.

“River,” he said quietly, “whatever those people were doing out there, it’s bigger than missing files or a runaway report. Something’s really…off.”

“I know.” I swallowed. “I felt it.”

His gaze held mine, searching, like he could see the churn inside me if he stared long enough. Once, he could have. Before nostalgia could sink its claws in, I pushed the door open. Cold air rushed in, snapping everything back into place.

“Get some rest,” I said. “I’ll text you in the morning.”

“River.”

I paused, one hand on the doorframe.

“You need to be careful,” he said. It wasn’t an order, nor a warning. It was something heavier. “We don’t know who’s involved yet, and I can’t—” He stopped. Exhaled. Tried again. “Just…watch your back.”

It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Not by a long shot.