Then I heard gravel crunch.
And a familiar bark.
Not the weak, tired sound my dog usually made when asking to go outside—but something sharper, brighter. Alive.
My heart lurched.
I grabbed the nearest thing within reach—a heavy steel flashlight—and rushed downstairs without even putting on shoes. The hardwood floor felt like ice beneath my feet as panic pushed adrenaline through my veins.
When I threw open the front door, freezing Colorado air hit me like a wall.
A dusty blue pickup truck sat in my driveway with its headlights blazing. The passenger door hung open, and beside it stood Walter Hayes, a broad-shouldered man wearing a worn hunting jacket I recognized instantly.
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