The crisp autumn air of Bozeman bit through my jacket as I pulled my truck into the gravel drive of my own home on Chestnut Street.
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Chapter 8 / 15
Chapter 13 - Shadows in the MountainsTwo weeks later, the crisp October air brought the first dusting of snow to the peaks of the Bridger Mountains. Life at the Chestnut Street house had settled into a steady, comforting rhythm. Diego was thriving in his new school, his grades were climbing, and the dark, haunted look in his eyes had been replaced by the bright curiosity of a normal nine-year-old.
Until Thursday evening.
I was in the garage checking the snowblower when the motion-sensor floodlights outside flashed on.
I stepped out into the driveway, scanning the dark perimeter of the yard. A rental sedan with out-of-state plates was idling half a block down, its headlights dark. In the passenger seat, a silhouette ducked quickly out of view as my eyes scanned the vehicle.
Grant.
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He hadn't fled to Nevada after all; or perhaps he had come back, desperate and cornered, looking for cash or leverage that no longer existed.
I didn't yell. I pulled my phone from my pocket, dialed Deputy Miller’s direct cell number, and read off the license plate numbers before walking straight back inside and locking every deadbolt in the house.
