Page 132 of Gunnar

I keep low, pushing past a branch, stopping just before the edge of the trail.

A black SUV appears through the trees, moving along the road that leads up to the lodge.

My stomach drops.

I step out just enough to see the track.

The SUV slows as it climbs, tires crunching over the gravel. Another follows behind it.

I stay where I am, half-hidden by the trees. Then I see them:

Two huge shapes at the edge of the clearing.

Torin and Orson. Both shifted.

They’re already there, positioned on either side of the track like they’ve been waiting for this.

My gaze flicks between them.

Last night—beer, laughter, Orson clapping me on the shoulder.

Now they’re ready to tear something apart.

The SUVs roll to a stop.

Engines cut.

Then the driver’s window of the first vehicle lowers.

Gray hair—Detective Harris.

The one who met me in the parking garage that night, steering me through the chaos like I was something fragile and inconvenient at the same time. Asking me questions I couldn’t answer, then asking them again anyway, pressing a bottle of water into my hand, keeping me talking, getting me into the car and out before I could really understand what I’d seen, and what the consequences were going to be.

“We’re not here for trouble,” he calls.

Torin and Orson don’t move.

Gunnar holds position between them, massive and still.

“We’ve got good news, actually,” he says. “Where is she?”

No one answers.

Harris nods, like he expected that.

“Alright,” he says. “The Russian who came after her—he’s dead.”

Gunnar lifts his massive head in acknowledgement.

“CSI says his throat was torn out. Maybe by a wild animal.”

He waits.

Nothing.

“Convenient, anyway.”

He clears his throat.