Page 60 of The Malibu Secret

"That's not how it works," Lilith says with a gentle smile. "No spell can override free will. I could do a red candle ritual for passion, though that's not really my specialty. I have friends who are better at those, if you want."

I pocket the rose quartz with a sigh. What I need is something to scrub Tally from my memory so I can give my heart to the woman I'm actually marrying.

But even in Lilith's world of crystals and candles, some magic just doesn't exist.

Chapter Fifty

TALLY

Convict Canyon Trail is famous for its steep climb, and that's exactly where shit goes sideways. I'm hauling myself up with hiking poles around the 4 mile mark, so I didn’t get too far on the trail, when this massive mountain lion comes bounding down the trail like he owns the place. I freeze, thinking, "Don't run, don't run," but the shock sends me stumbling backward. Next thing I know, I'm tumbling ass-over-teakettle down this ravine, watching my phone fly out of my pocket somewhere along the way. By the time I stop rolling, the mountain lion's already forgotten about me—he's up there munching on some poor rabbit while I'm sprawled at the bottom realizing something in my body is definitely not right.

I squint at the Convict Creek basin about a hundred yards away. Most hikers avoid it—the terrain's a bitch to navigate, all loose scree and hidden drop-offs. I might get lucky and spot someone headed that direction, but fat chance. And here I am, ass-deep in wilderness with the actual trail far, far away.

Stay calm, Tally. Hikers come through the trail all the time, but am I too far away? They'll hear you if you yell. Right? Fuck. I try to move and nearly black out from the pain shooting through my leg. Broken. Definitely broken. Though weirdly, it doesn't hurt as much as it should—my body's pumping me full of whatever chemicals keep you from losing your shit in emergencies. And my goddamn phone is MIA, probably smashed against a rock somewhere between here and the trail. Even if I had it, what are the chances of getting a signal in this wilderness anyway?

The sun's dipping below the ridge now. Fuck. Soon it'll be thirty-something degrees out here with God knows what prowling around—like that mountain lion that sent me scrambling earlier. I know the statistics. Attacks are rare. Doesn't stop my heart from jackhammering every time a twig snaps.

I strain my ears for hikers on the trail above, saving my voice. No point screaming into empty wilderness and draining what little energy I have left.

Night creeps in. Nobody's coming. I yank the emergency blanket from my pack, wrap it around my shoulders. Still shivering. This wasn't the plan—I was supposed to loop Convict Canyon Trail and be back at the trailhead by sunset, driving to Mammoth Mountain RV Park with actual Wi-Fi to text Mom that I'm alive. Tomorrow was meant for Devil's Postpile, a six-mile hike that leads to Rainbow Falls, that hundred-foot waterfall everyone raves about.

Instead, I'm trapped in this ravine with one water bottle and a granola bar. Day hiker's rations. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I don't sleep a wink. When the sun finally peeks over the mountain, I hear voices on the trail and my heart leaps. Thank God! Someone's bound to hear me screaming and haul my sorry ass out of here. People get emergency-evac'd all the time—and yeah, I used to roll my eyes at those dumbasses wasting rescue resources. Used to think Darwin should just do its work and take those idiots out of the gene pool instead of their asses getting rescued on the taxpayers’ dime.

Funny how being the dumbass changes your perspective.

"HELP!" My throat burns raw as hikers pass by. Not a single one stops. “HELP!” I scream it six times, like that'll make a difference. Am I too far off-trail to be heard? The thought slithers in: I could actually die here. No. I refuse to think like that. But as the tenth group of hikers strolls past—close enough I can see their goddamn water bottles glinting in the sun—reality sinks in. They can't see me. They can't hear me. And I'm screaming myself hoarse for nothing.

Hikers tromp past overhead all day, their voices fading in and out like bad radio reception. None of them hear me screaming.

Night blankets the ravine again. My tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth. My water bottle's been empty for hours. My stomach's given up growling. The thought hits me like a rock slide: people vanish on these trails every year. They slip down some forgotten crevice and waste away while search parties walk right past them. Their bodies don't turn up until some random hiker stumbles across bleached bones months later.

That could be me.

Fuck.

That's probably going to be me.

Chapter Fifty-One

TALLY

Three days now. No water left. No hope either. I'm hallucinating—Cameron stands right in front of me, clear as day. I reach for him, but my fingers pass through empty air. Then I see little Brinley wobbling toward me on unsteady legs. Yeah right. Like a toddler would be out here alone on this godforsaken trail.

Nothing to do but replay my life's greatest hits and, believe it or not, pray. Something inside me knows there's gotta be more than this. Maybe it's some glowing Jesus-looking dude with his arms wide open, or maybe it's one of those goddesses Lilith's always going on about—Brigid or whatever. Something's out there. Has to be. Otherwise, how do you explain the cosmic joke where some people get dealt royal flushes while others get nothing but garbage hands? Rich kids born with silver spoons, while others dodge bullets in war zones or starve in the same damn country where people throw away enough food to feed them ten times over. If this is all there is, the universe has one sick sense of humor.

I stare at the top of a pine tree until it blurs, then squeeze my eyes shut. “Hey, dude in the sky. We haven't exactly been on speaking terms since the Wilsons hauled my ass to church every damn Sunday when I was twelve. Even then I was mostly checking out that hot skater boy in the front pew instead of giving you thanks or whatever. Sorry about that.” My broken leg throbs like a bastard now that the adrenaline's wearing off. No hikers. No rescue. Just me at the bottom of this ravine. "Listen, God, Universe, whoever's tuned to this channel—I make it out alive, I'll get my shit together. No more running when things get real. I swear it."

Jesus Christ, I'm such an idiot! Is this really how it ends for me? Shit, I thought I had decades left to get my act together. To find that perfect guy who'd step up for Brinley. Someone I could actually build something real with, who'd make me want to be better.

Cameron would've been perfect, damn it, but that ship has sailed. Still, I’d love to find someone like him—a guy who'd croon lullabies in that deep, slightly raspy voice, who'd make pancakes shaped like dinosaurs, who'd remember exactly how much cream I take in my coffee without asking. Someone who'd fight for me if it came to that. Who'd teach Brinley to ride a bike without training wheels, who'd sit on her bed at midnight when some teenage asshole breaks her heart, who'd say, "Listen, kiddo, about those raves your mom's warning you about? Trust me, I've patched up enough ODs to know she's right for once."

Someone to balance me out—steady when I'm a hurricane, gentle when I'm all sharp edges. Brinley deserves that good cop/bad cop tag team. Every kid does. Christ, if I don't find her someone like Cameron, she's stuck with just me, the bad cop, and my chaos, and I'll screw her up beyond repair.

Dammit. Now it's too late.

It's all too late…