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Cold unease slides through my stomach.

“You alright?” Jace asks quietly.

Before I can answer, a drunk voice cuts across the room.

“Well, look who showed up.”

The entire lodge quiets just slightly.

I turn toward the sound and spot a broad man near the stage holding a beer bottle loosely in one hand. Tourist. Late forties. Red-faced already.

He points directly at me.

“Seattle reporter lady,” he says loudly. “Come to write another hit piece about the mountain folk?”

Several people shift uncomfortably.

I straighten slowly. “Just asking questions.”

“Yeah?” he slurs. “That what you people call it now?”

“Tom,” someone warns quietly.

But he keeps going.

“You reporters come up here acting like vultures every damn year. Missing hikers, corrupt land deals, scary mountain stories.” He laughs harshly. “You people don’t care who gets hurt as long as you get clicks.”

Heat crawls up my neck.

Every eye in the lodge lands on me.

“I’m doing my job,” I say evenly.

“You’re making money off dead people.”

The room goes quieter.

Tighter.

I set my glass down carefully. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know your kind.”

“Then you should know I don’t scare easily.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says with a mean grin. “You should.”

Something flickers behind the crowd near the projector screen.

Movement.

Then suddenly the lights dim.

A photograph flashes across the giant auction screen overhead.

My stomach drops so hard it physically hurts.

It’s me.