Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 29800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Because I’m not just losing control anymore.
I’m starting to want to.
Chapter Eleven
Nora
I know I’m doing something stupid the second I wait for Rhett to leave.
That should probably stop me.
It doesn’t.
The cabin door shuts behind him just after sunrise, his heavy boots crunching through fresh snow as he heads toward the lower ridge line to check traps and storm damage. I watch him through the kitchen window until he disappears into the trees, broad shoulders swallowed by the mountain like he belongs to it more than the rest of us ever could.
Then I exhale slowly and reach for my laptop.
Because if I tell Rhett what I found last night, he’ll lock me in this cabin and throw me over his shoulder if necessary.
Honestly, he’d probably enjoy it.
That thought heats my face in a way that’s deeply inconvenient considering I’m actively trying to investigate corruption and possible murder.
Focus, Nora.
I pull up the files I downloaded from the county records office two days ago while Rhett thought I was researching old hiking trails. At first glance, the documents look boring enough to induce a coma. Land transfers. Permit approvals. Environmental reports.
Except the dates don’t line up.
And neither do the deaths.
I stare at the screen harder, cross-checking names again while snow falls steadily outside the cabin windows.
Three hikers disappeared over the last eighteen months near recently acquired land parcels purchased by Blackwater Ridge Development.
All three were ruled accidental deaths or exposure cases.
All three disappeared near protected forest zones suddenly approved for commercial expansion.
And every single environmental complaint tied to those properties vanished within weeks.
“Okay,” I whisper slowly. “That’s not suspicious at all.”
I click open another folder.
My stomach tightens immediately.
Photos.
Not crime scene photos.
Dumping site photos.
Industrial waste barrels buried deep in protected mountain land, half-covered with dirt and snow. Rusted chemical containers leaking into streams. Dead wildlife.
Jesus Christ.
A timestamp flashes across the corner.
Eight months ago.
Attached beneath the photos is an unsigned statement.
They found out we saw it. That’s why they’re gone.
Cold slides through my chest.
Because suddenly the missing hikers don’t feel theoretical anymore.
My phone buzzes sharply against the table, nearly making me jump out of my skin.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
I hesitate before answering. “Hello?”
Static crackles briefly.
Then a man’s voice drops low through the line. “You’re asking dangerous questions.”
My pulse spikes instantly. “Who is this?”
“You want proof?” he asks quietly. “Meet me tonight.”
Every instinct I have screams no.
Unfortunately, curiosity has always been my fatal flaw.
“Proof of what?”
“The hikers.” Another crackle of static. “The dumping sites. The payoffs.”
I straighten slowly in my chair. “You know who’s responsible?”
“I know enough.”
The phrase hits strangely after spending days trapped in a cabin with Rhett Maddox saying the same damn thing every five minutes.
“When?” I ask carefully.
“Tonight. Eight o’clock. Old ranger station off Blackwood Trail.”
“That place is abandoned.”
“That’s why nobody’ll see us.”
Alarm bells go off instantly.
“You could just email me the files.”
“No phones. No paper trail.” His voice lowers further. “You want the truth or not?”
The line goes dead before I can answer.
I stare at the phone for a long second afterward.
Then curse quietly under my breath.
Because this is exactly the kind of setup that gets women murdered in documentaries.
And somehow I’m still considering it.
The front door opens an hour later, bringing cold air and Rhett Maddox back into the cabin in one massive, intimidating package. Snow dusts his shoulders and dark hair while his thermal shirt stretches tight across his chest from hauling equipment through waist-deep drifts all morning.
The man looks aggressively masculine before coffee.
It’s honestly rude.
His eyes find mine immediately.
Always immediately.
“What?” he asks.
I blink. “What do you mean what?”
“You’re thinking too hard.”
Damn him.
Rhett kicks the door shut behind him and sets down his gear near the fireplace before stalking toward me slowly. The closer he gets, the more aware I become of the fact that I’m hiding something from him for the first time since this whole mess started.
And apparently guilt has a physical temperature because suddenly I’m overheating.
“You’re staring again,” he says.
“You keep walking around looking like a lumberjack fantasy novel.”
His mouth twitches slightly. “That supposed to distract me?”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
Liar.
Rhett stops directly in front of me, bracing one hand against the kitchen counter beside my hip. Too close. Way too close for a man who notices every tiny shift in my expression.
“You’re nervous,” he says quietly.
“I’m caffeinated.”
“Same thing with you sometimes.”
God.
I hate how easily he reads me now.
Rhett’s gaze drifts slowly over my face, sharp and focused enough that my stomach tightens. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nora.”
The warning in my name sends heat skimming down my spine instantly.
Not fear.
Awareness.
Because I know exactly how this goes when Rhett decides he wants the truth out of me.
“You always this intense before noon?” I ask lightly.
“Yes.”
“I was hoping that was temporary.”
“Nope.”
I try to step sideways.
His hand catches my waist immediately.
Firm.
Possessive.
Completely unfair to my concentration.
“You’re dodging,” he says.
“You’re hovering.”
“Answer the question.”
I force myself to meet his gaze evenly. “I’m working.”