Kyler found his reset button about eight o’clock on Sunday morning, when he woke to the soft silence in the cabin. It had bothered him for most of the day yesterday, after Dahlia had left, but somehow in the night, everything had come into focus.

Maybe it was his prayers. Maybe it was the fact that she’d responded to his text with enthusiasm about their date the following night. It could’ve been anything, and Kyler didn’t much care what. He was just glad he felt like himself again.

He got up, showered, and had just dipped the first sausage roll in pancake batter when someone knocked on his door. Foolishly, his heart did a little hop, skip, and jump at the thought of it being Dahlia again.

Would he react that way every time someone knocked on this cabin door?

Grinning, he set the breakfast corndog back in the pancake batter as BB barked. He glanced at the corgi and found him skittering around the kitchen, like he knew something Kyler didn’t.

“It’s fine, BB,” he told the little dog and went to answer the door. Instead of a gorgeous, drenched woman on the other side, a man stood there. Several inches shorter than Kyler, but with an angry, pinched look about his face that set Kyler’s defenses on high. And BB behind him barking every few seconds didn’t help.

He kept the door halfway closed and filled the rest of the space with his body so the man couldn’t see inside and BB wouldn’t rush out. The man had a whole lot of dark hair that curled at the ends, with endless black eyes that seemed to see more than Kyler wanted them to.

“What can I help you with?” Kyler noticed the scar running from behind the man’s right ear, and he suddenly felt less safe out here in the wilderness. His stomach tightened, and Kyler disliked the idea that his woods weren’t safe anymore.

The man didn’t speak for several long seconds, and Kyler’s scalp prickled. Had he gotten lost up here? Was he hurt?

Kyler scanned the man from the top of his head to his booted feet, noticing the wear and tear on the man’s dirty jeans, the traces of red dust along the top edges of his bulky work boots, and the flap of his blue flannel shirt that was torn as if it had been caught on a piece of barbed wire.

He edged back six inches, his mind running through possible things he could use to defend himself. Fireplace poker, his hands, the empty vase on the dining room table. BB had quieted, and Kyler knew he was no guard dog.

He wasn’t sure why exactly—maybe the scar, maybe the silence, maybe the shirt—but this man screamed dangerous.

“Do you have a phone?” The man spoke in perfect English—almost too perfect given his olive skin and his rough appearance.

“Sure.” Kyler made no move to retrieve it from where he’d left it on the kitchen counter, playing his favorite station from the Internet radio app he loved.

“May I borrow it for a few minutes?” A greasy smile slid across the man’s face. “No more than five minutes, I promise.”

Not wanting to turn his back on the man, or invite him in, Kyler stepped back into the house, said, “Just a sec,” and closed the door behind him.

Something told him to send off a quick text to Milton before letting this man use his phone, so he did. Someone here to borrow my phone. A man. Looks rough. Call me in ten?

Kyler sent the message and stared at the closed front door, BB cowering in the corner of the kitchen, his eyes begging Kyler not to open the door again. Kyler stepped into the dining room so he could see out the window that flanked the door, and at just the right angle, he could see the dark-haired man still standing at the door. He hadn’t moved at all. Didn’t glance around.

Kyler’s phone chirped, and he jumped with the sound and the vibration in his palm.

Get his name, Milton had said. I’ll call you in eight.

Kyler erased the message and stepped past the dining room table where he’d eaten with Dahlia just as another knock came on the door. He whipped it open. “Sorry.” He laughed, the sound obviously made of nerves and air. “Couldn’t find it.” He extended the phone to the man. “What’s your name? I’ve never seen you up here.”

The man’s fingers—complete with something dark under the nails—curled around the end of the phone. “My buddies and I were camping at the bluff and I got separated from them.”

Kyler didn’t release the device. “What’s your name?”

“Jose Garces.”

Obviously a lie, and not only because the man didn’t blink, didn’t put any inflection in his voice, and didn’t let go of the phone.

“Okay, Jose,” Kyler said, a sliver of irony at how that statement rhymed snaking through him. He released the phone, and Jose backed up. He turned at the edge of the porch and went down the stairs, his head bent.

Kyler kept his eye on the man, first noticing more tears along the back of the man’s shirt, one of the edges obviously stained with blood. He gripped the door and wished he had his phone so he could take a picture, call Milton—or better yet, the police. Why, he had no idea.

Jose wasn’t trespassing; he’d come right to the front door. He hadn’t done anything that Kyler knew of, other than look like he had no soul. He trailed his fingers along the seat of Kyler’s motorcycle, his back still the only view Kyler had. He froze, wondering if this man would throw his leg over the bike and take off with the two most essential things Kyler needed to survive up here.

Then his head lifted and the hand holding the phone dropped. He turned back and approached again, his stride sure and every step intimidating. At the top of the stairs, he extended the phone. “Thank you.”

Kyler took it and shoved it in his back pocket. “Sure. Do you need help?”

“No, I am fine.” He flashed a smile that contained no assurance, no happiness. “Do you come to this cabin often?”

“Yes,” Kyler said, though he and his family really didn’t use it all that often now that they were older and a lot of them were married. “My family owns it and we come all the time.”

The man cocked his head as if he too could tell a lie when he heard one, nodded once, and turned away. He walked down the steps, down the driveway, and on down the road, never once looking back.

Kyler watched him until the top of his head disappeared down the swell in the land, only then taking a truly deep breath. His phone rang, and he nearly fell over. He darted back inside the cabin, closed and locked the door, and answered the call from Milt.

“So you’re still alive?” His brother didn’t sound like he was kidding, but Kyler felt like a fool.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have hurt me,” he said, though he absolutely wasn’t sure of that. He stepped over to the window and stared out of it, almost expecting Jose to return with a gang of similarly dirty men—his camping buddies—and burn the cabin to the ground. “He said his name was Jose Garces and that he was camping with his buddies at the bluffs.”

“And he wanted what?”

“He needed to use my phone.”

“Who did he call?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Look at the number.”

Why Milton was so interested, Kyler wasn’t sure. And what would he do? Call the same number? Kyler really didn’t think that was a good idea. But he said, “All right, hold on,” and put his brother on speaker so he could navigate to his call history.

He repeated the number to Milt and scanned the front of the cabin again. No movement. No one. He still felt too exposed out here, and he decided to leave earlier than planned.

“I’m talking to Tate about it,” Milt said. “He doesn’t want you to worry, but I think you should come down to town.”

“He went off in the wrong direction,” Kyler said, his voice in a monotone.

“What?”

“The man. Jose. Whoever. He said he was camping with his buddies at the bluffs, but when he left, he went straight down the road. The bluffs are to the west.” He looked in the direction Jose should’ve gone, but nothing seemed out of place.

“And he asked me if we come up here and use this cabin much.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said we were up here all the time.” Kyler turned away from the window and went back into the kitchen. He turned off the stove where the oil he’d been heating was probably now scorched. “I’m cleaning up and coming back,” he said. “It’ll probably take me a couple of hours to get everything done here and back to Brush Creek.”

“Keep me updated,” Milt said. “I want to know when you leave, anything you see or hear.”

Kyler nodded and said, “Okay,” when he remembered his brother couldn’t see him. He hung up and launched himself into full clean-up mode, desperation driving him to get out of the canyon as soon as possible.

Ninety minutes later, he had everything scrubbed and put away in the cabin, his backpack packed and lying next to the front door, and BB secure in his kennel that strapped to the back of Kyler’s bike. He’d closed all the blinds and made sure the back door leading to the mudroom was tightly locked and then the chain hooked into place. They had had some break-ins in the past, but nothing nefarious. Stranded hikers or campers in a bad storm, like Dahlia had been.

For some reason, Kyler hadn’t called or texted her about the incident with Jose. She hadn’t answered any of his questions about what she’d been doing or investigating on Friday night, and Milt had assured him that Tate was learning what he could.

It probably wasn’t anything. A guy who needed to make a phone call. That wasn’t a crime, and neither was walking around in dirty jeans and a torn shirt.

Leaving now, he typed out, almost smashing his thumb against the send button in his over-anxious state.

He picked up his pack and swung it onto his back, pulling open the door with one hand while digging in his jeans pocket for the keys with the other. His father had always warned him to lock the cabin tight, and Kyler didn’t think there was a more crucial time to follow those directions.

With the lock in place, and the deadbolt too, Kyler reached for the helmet he’d left on the long, wide railing that fenced in the porch. Tires popped over gravel, and his heart started shooting around in his chest like a ball of fireworks.

A police car came into view, but it was unlike the one Dahlia had climbed into yesterday morning. This one belonged to McDermott Boyd, and the man himself climbed out of the front seat, taking several seconds to drink in the scenery before him.

“McDermott?” Kyler asked, hurrying toward the steps. “What’s going on?”

“Stop!” McDermott held up his hand, and Kyler froze. His best friend strode forward, his eyes tense and anxious. “Have you been down the steps yet?”

“No.”

“I got wind that you’d met a man up here,” he said, stopping a good distance back. “We’re interested in collecting evidence if we can find it. We need you to stay right where you are.”

Another car rolled up, this one a cruiser from the Beaverton Police Department.

“Evidence?” Kyler repeated. “Evidence of what?”

McDermott studied the ground. “Footprints. Dust, hair, fibers, anything.”

“Who was that guy?” Kyler asked.

“We don’t know.” McDermott took another step; he was almost to the motorcycle.

“He touched that,” Kyler blurted out. McDermott’s head popped up, his eyes wide. “The bike,” Kyler continued. “He touched it. Ran his finger along the seat. Stood right next to it. Walked from here to there, and then back. He had his hands all over my phone too.”

Kyler took it out of his pocket, sure he’d erased the evidence the police needed. “It’s been in and out of my pocket, and I’ve touched it a lot too.”

“Set it on the railing there,” he said. “The helmet too.” McDermott nodded when Kyler followed his directions. “Step to the side, Kyler. The detectives will be here to question you in a few minutes.” He smiled, and it was the same kind, brotherly smile Kyler had always seen on McDermott’s face.

“Am I in trouble?” he called to his friend as he turned to the pair of Beaverton cops that had joined him.

“No, Kyler,” McDermott assured him. “You’ll be fine.”

Fine wasn’t the same as not in trouble, but Kyler stepped to the side and set his heavy backpack on the porch. And when that same car pulled up and Gray and Dahlia got out, they both looked grim, fierce, and absolutely like he was in seriously big trouble.