Our plans? We’re going to look really, really hard for Brady. What else is there to do? We can call in the Mounties with a full search team, blow Rockton’s cover to hell for the sake of stopping one killer, and it won’t ultimately achieve anything more than we can do on our own, which is, in short, frustratingly little.

I remember hearing once that Alaska is the serial killer capital of America—not for the number of active ones, but the number who have disappeared there. That is, obviously, an urban legend. It’s not as if serial killers leave behind a “gone to Alaska” note. Instead, the so-called fact is an acknowledgment that there are likely many people hiding there, who have done something terrible and then fled where they cannot be found.

The same goes for the Yukon. In Whitehorse, I’ve heard people joke that the most common question asked of newcomers is “So, what are you running from?” The answer for most is “Nothing.” People run to places like Whitehorse. They come on a job placement or a vacation and fall in love, like I have. Whitehorse is a city of transplants. Willing transplants. But yes, everyone knows there are people in the wilderness who are hiding. Asking questions is frowned upon, both for safety and as a courtesy.

We don’t know what—or who—might be in these woods. And we don’t really care to find out, because the point is moot. Modern tracking equipment can’t reliably locate hikers who wander off the Appalachian Trail. It sure as hell won’t locate fugitives up here.

* * *

We must find lodgings for our unexpected guests.

“I will take Casey’s old house,” Phil says. “I know it’s vacant.”

“Yeah, no,” Dalton says. “The guy paying the bills gets the house. Casey just needs to move something out first.”

“No need,” Wallace says. “I won’t disturb any of her belongings.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But there’s one item you’ll definitely want relocated.”

We take Phil and Wallace to my house with their luggage. I open the door and slip inside with a quick, “Give me a sec.”

A few minutes later, I emerge with a duffel bag and a sleepy cub.

Phil sees the wolf-dog and turns on Dalton. “We allowed special dispensation for a single canine. Casey’s dog, which is a working—”

“This isn’t a pet,” I say. “It’s the remaining cub from the wolf-dog we had to put down.”

“And so you brought it here? This isn’t a wildlife refuge, Detective.”

“This cub bit Eric. We feared it was rabid, and I needed to monitor it.”

Phil steps back so fast I have the very childish urge to dump the cub into his arms. I do hold it out toward him. I can’t resist that.

“It’s fine, see?” I say.

“Then why is it still here?”

“As opposed to dumping it in the forest? Or killing it?”

As he opens his mouth, I spot a familiar figure passing and shout, “Yo! Mathias!”

Mathias makes his way over and arches a brow. “Did you actually hail me with ‘yo’?” He speaks in French as his gaze touches on our guests, testing their comprehension. Wallace gives no sign of understanding. Phil squints, as if he recognizes French from long-ago classes.

“We have guests,” I say in English. “I’m sure you’ve already heard that.”

“Our illustrious council liaison, and the poor man who married into the family of a serial killer.”

Wallace blinks, but then chuckles. “That’s one way of putting it.” He shakes Mathias’s hand as I introduce them properly.

Then I say, “Your timing is perfect. I was just about to tell Phil that you’ve volunteered to take and train this cub as a guard and hunting dog. But I’m afraid he’s going to tell you no.”

“No?” Mathias says, as if he doesn’t recognize the word. He turns to Phil and fixes him with a smile that has sent many a resident skittering from the butcher shop. “You wish to tell me I cannot have this cub, Philip? That is unfortunate. I was very much looking forward to it.”

“I never said—”

“Excellent. Then we are agreed. I will quarantine and then train it properly, as a working beast.” He hefts the cub from my arms. “The next serial killer must escape the jaws of a wolf if he wishes to flee.” He pauses. “Or she. I would not wish to be sexist.”

“Let’s just hope we don’t have to guard more serial killers, okay? Now Mr. Wallace is taking my old house while he’s here, so you’ll need to care for the cub.”

Mathias says in French, “You realize you cannot take it back now. You have committed to the course. All for the sake of tweaking poor Philip.”

“I couldn’t resist.”

“A cruel streak. This is why I like you.” He takes the bag of supplies from my hand and switches to English. “Do you know where Philip will stay? I do not believe we have empty apartments.”

“We can move Kenny out and place him under guard,” I say. “Then let Phil take the house we built for Oliver.”

“The windowless box you built for Oliver?” Phil says. “I am certainly not—”

“Yes,” Mathias says. “That would be wrong. You must stay with me. Ah, no—I mean us.” He hefts the canine. “Please. I insist.”

Phil’s jaw works, as if he knows he’s being played here. Then he says, his voice tight, “Oliver’s intended residence will be adequate.”

* * *

We leave the men to settle into their lodgings and we resume our search for Oliver Brady. We’re out until dark, and I’m putting my extra gear in the locker when Isabel comes in and says, “We need a fourth for poker.”

I laugh. Hard.

“I’m serious,” she says.

I close the equipment locker. “I’m exhausted, Isabel. I’m going home with Eric, to a hot meal, a warm bed, and as much sleep as I can get.”

“Eric won’t be joining you for a while. There’s a problem with the lumber-shed reconstruction.”

“Of course there is.”

“So, poker?” she says.

I shake my head. “If Eric’s busy, I’m going to have that hot meal waiting when he’s done.”

“That’s very domestic of you.”

“No, it’s considerate.”

“I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use, having heard Will and Eric discuss your cooking.” She follows me from the equipment shed. “One of the cooks at the Lion owes me a favor. I’ll have her prepare something to put aside for both of you.”

“Then I’ll rest—”

“That word is not in your vocabulary, Casey.” She keeps pace alongside me. “If you want a rest, you’ll find it in our poker game. It’s an all-estrogen event. You, me, Petra, and Diana.”

“Since when do you play poker—or socialize with Diana?”

“Since I requested her presence at this particular game. I know you and I both would have preferred Nicole, but she’s busy with the search. Diana is joining us in a wake for the loss of one of our own.”

I slow. “Val.”

“Yes, and while you might not want the reminder, I think we owe it to Val.”

I nod and follow her.