“They must’ve been under contract with my father. When the contracts expired, they were no longer indebted to him. Does Denver know about the flight logs?”

  “Yeah, he knows. But we’ve never talked about it.”

  I wonder if those logs kept him in check, if they kept him from hunting his favorite prey.

  Children.

  My soul recoils, cornered by unspeakable memories. “What kept him from flying to other towns, other ports?”

  “Nothing, I suppose. But the Hobbs meter makes him liable. You know what that is?”

  “Yes. Denver and I got our pilot licenses at age seventeen. But the meter can be manipulated, much like an odometer on a car.”

  “Sure. If he runs the engine without leaving the ground, it puts more time on the clock and makes it look like he went farther than he actually did. But he can’t reverse the hours without tampering with the meter itself. I check the mechanism every time he arrives and log the hours.” He points at the entries in the logbook. “I would know if the meter was tampered with. It never is. And according to the logged hours, he’s never flown that plane longer than four hours in each direction.”

  “That means he’s not flying anywhere but here.”

  “That’s what I reckon.”

  “That also means he lives four hours from this location.”

  “Give or take, depending on the payload and the speed he sets. Unless he’s letting the engine idle and running up the hours. It’s not a reliable gauge to estimate distance.”

  I leaf through the pages of the logbook, noting that the flights average about five times a year. “Why did you continue to log his flights after my father’s men stopped coming for them?”

  “You were right about the threats. I got a daughter and grandchildren in Fairbanks. Those men told me to keep the logs until the day I died. If I stopped, they would kill my family. That was the deal.”

  “And you agreed to it?”

  “I was a young, naive man when they first approached me. Offered money when I didn’t have any. The threats came later.”

  The tread of Sirena’s footsteps draws our attention to the door.

  “Detectives are driving in from Anchorage.” She heads straight toward me and rests a hand on my arm. “You doing okay?”

  No. I’m far from okay.

  Denver is alive.

  I’m drowning in a canyon of disbelief, where shadows whisper truths too monstrous to bear, and every beat of my heart is a drum of horror and dread.

  I’ve seen first-hand what Denver is capable of, and he was only eighteen then.

  At age forty-eight, what kind of monster has he become?

  He has a brilliant mind, understands the mechanics of things, including people. He can outsmart and out-manipulate the sharpest, strongest person. And he does it without mercy or feeling.

  There’s no limit to the depth of his evil.

  If he took Frankie…

  I can’t let myself grasp the gravity of what that means.

  Not here.

  Not yet.

  Soon, this place will turn into a shitshow, swarming with cops, detectives, and reporters. I need to get as many answers as I can before that happens.

  Determination sets in, hardening like the ice beneath my feet.

  “You said you did his shopping for twenty-five years?” I slide over a stool and motion for him to sit. “Do you have those shopping lists in writing?”

  “I have financial records of every item bought and every penny spent.” He lowers onto the seat. “He gave me an unlimited bank account for that.”

  A bank account can be traced. I share a look with Sirena.

  “Start from the beginning.” I pace before him, heart racing. “Tell me everything.”

  I crouch beneath the shadow of the bush plane, my fingers stained black with oil and grime, checking the hydraulic lines for leaks, abrasions, or anything that might indicate a weakening system. I’ve inspected the landing gear more than I can count, but it bears repeating.

  Weeks have passed since Kody and Frankie returned with the pemmican. Perhaps a month or longer. In that time, my intimacy with this machine has ascended to another level.

  I’ve dissected its anatomy like a surgeon, familiarizing myself with every nut, joint, and seal.

  Using a checklist I compiled from the flight manual, I mark off the equipment as I go so I don’t miss a single component. If I encounter something not in the manual, I take it apart, figure it out, and reassemble it.

  There isn’t a wire, bolt, or piece of this bird that I haven’t touched and learned its purpose.

  Every hour beneath these wings solidifies my dream to be a pilot and aviation mechanic, running my own private airport.

  But my obsession with this particular plane has nothing to do with my future plans. When I take it off the ground, I’m responsible for the safety of my family. One mistake up there, and I could lose them forever.

  I cannot, will not, let that happen.

  They’re usually in here with me, learning and asking questions. Frankie loves to sit in the cockpit and write in her scrapbook while Kody and I thoroughly inspect every bolt, gasket, and spark plug.

  She journals daily, documenting every detail of our lives—the good and bad parts, the struggles and victories, our abominable pasts and our dreams for the future. And the sex. She writes about that, too.

  I haven’t read any of it. I don’t need to relive most of what happened to us, but I understand why she’s keeping written records.

  When we leave this place, we have a story to tell. Not just ours but that of the victims who died here. The gritty details are all there in the pages of her scrapbook.

  When we leave…

  That’s the question.

  Each day, the sun climbs a bit higher and lingers a bit longer. Little by little, the snow retreats, revealing patches of earth that haven’t seen the light of day in months.

  This morning, I spotted a few tiny buds breaking through the frost-hardened ground. And the air carries the faint, almost forgotten scent of thawing earth.

  Winter is slowly releasing its hold on us.

  By my estimation, we have another month before the blizzard risk drops enough to get the plane out.

  I’ve powered it up, idled the engine, driven it forward and backward in the confines of the garage. But I haven’t taken it off the ground.

  The thought races my heart with anticipation.

  I’ve imagined it so many times. The plan is clear in my mind. As soon as the snow melts, I’ll roll it onto the tundra and test every theory I’ve learned. After a few practice takeoffs and landings, I’ll load up Kody and Frankie and hit the skies.

  Buzzing with the rush of excitement, I tighten a bolt on the landing gear and climb into the cargo hold to finish installing the third seat.

  The distant trill of female laughter drifts through the slightly ajar door. It’s a welcome interruption, a comfort to know she’s nearby.

  I secure the passenger seat to the mounting points in the cabin floor and give it a hard shake, testing the installation.

  Denver removed the rear seating to accommodate more cargo space. Thankfully, he kept the chairs, and I found this one still in working condition.

  As I shorten the straps on the seat harness, picturing Frankie’s petite frame, her laughter peaks again, cutting through my concentration. The sound is mesmerizing, warming my chest and pulling at my lips.

  The plane can wait.

  I hop out and wipe my hands on a rag, curiosity guiding me to the door.

  Peeking outside, I find her kneeling in the snow. Bent over a plot of barren earth, she makes a small hole and sprinkles seeds in it.

  The very idea of growing anything in this terrain feels like a defiance of nature. That’s why we have the greenhouse.

  She knows that. She also knows we’ll be gone before those seeds yield food.

  Maybe this attempt to start a small garden, to coax the soil to life, is an act of hope.

  We’ve been living on pemmican for weeks and rationing for months. Veggies would be a welcome change. Anything sprouting from the cold, stubborn ground would be a welcome change.

  Hunting season remains months out of reach. We can’t hold out that long.

  We’ve extended our food supply to its limits. With the pemmican we have left, surviving another month will be pushing our luck.

  Kody stands a few feet away, loading a bolt in his crossbow. “Give me another target.”

  “Okay.” She twists toward him, scanning the perimeter. “How about that rock? The one with the pointy side?”

  He lifts the bow and trains it on a boulder thirty yards away. “Behold, as I, the great and fearless Lord Strakh, take aim at the beast most foul, a vicious Boulderax, known to strike terror into the hearts of the bravest souls.”

  As he releases the arrow and nails the target, her laughter rings out, vibrant and unconstrained.

  Christ, she’s beautiful.

  “Oh, my God.” She erupts in more giggles. “I’m dying. How about that can over there?”

  Securing a fresh arrow in the crossbow, he follows her gaze to the recycle bin and takes aim at the can on top. “Watch closely, fair maiden, as I embark on a perilous quest to vanquish the dreaded tin dragon, perched menacingly upon yonder stand, its gaze enough to petrify a lesser man.”

  He lets the bolt fly, hitting the mark.

  “I can’t…” She hugs her midsection, cackling hysterically. “I’m going to pee my pants.”

  I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, biting down on a grin.

  My brother is in rare fucking form. Who knew he could be so entertaining?

  “One more.” He slots a new bolt, his tone serious.

  “The compost pile.” She wipes tears from her eyes.

  “This is it, the moment of truth, where legends are born, and tales of epic battles are woven into the fabric of history, all centered around the mighty clash between man and…well, essentially a rotting pile of shit.”

  She falls over, howling with laughter before he even releases the shot.

  That sound, that infectious, carefree peal of happiness, is something that’s been scarce in this place. I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone laugh like that. Maybe never.

  And Kody…what the fuck? He’s actually smiling. Cheeks lifting, teeth showing, eyes shining, full-on smiling. I don’t even recognize him.

  He catches me staring, and I grin back, shaking my head. It feels weird, sharing such a lighthearted expression with the grumpy bastard. Things are changing, indeed.

  A soft, guttural croak overhead pulls my attention skyward as a ptarmigan approaches from the North. Its wings beat through the air with a whooshing whisper, steady and purposeful.

  Kody watches it momentarily before readying a new arrow and training it on the bird’s path.

  If we stewed its meat with herbs, it would be a mouth-watering delicacy after weeks of eating nothing but pemmican.

  But a moment of hesitation has him glancing at Frankie.

  She’s on her feet, lips parted, and huge eyes fixed on the bird with wonderment.

  He lowers the bow, the shot forgotten, and stares at her with adoration.

  She watches the ptarmigan until it fades from view. Then she sighs, her breath no longer visible in the sunlit air.

  Turning back to her garden, she locks eyes with me. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

  “Hey, yourself.” I nod toward the seeds she planted. “You think those will take?”

  “They better.” She cocks her hip. “If they know what’s good for them.”

  The snowdrifts reach waist-high in most places around the property. But here, where we repeatedly walk between the cabin and the workshop, the snow is worn down and melty.

  I kick at the ground, now more slush than ice, watching it slowly reveal the soil beneath. “We’ll be trading snow for skies in about a month.”

  “Just in time to see my garden grow.” She shrugs. “Something for the rabbits to munch on.”

  “The rabbits? We don’t feed the critters. They feed us.”

  “Exactly.”

  She planted this here as bait?

  Damn.

  Gorgeous, sassy, and smart as hell. I couldn’t love this woman more if I tried.

  “I told her those seeds won’t sprout there.” Kody prowls toward her little patch of dirt. “This time next year, we’ll be laughing about it over a real meal somewhere far from here.”

  He and I exchange another grin just as a snowball flies out of nowhere, smacking him squarely in the face. Stunned, he pauses, blinks away the surprise, and gently clears the icy mush from his vision.

  “Talking shit on my garden?” She tosses another snowball back and forth between her hands. “Do it again. I dare you.”

  “Shit, man.” I laugh. “Consider yourself officially challenged to a duel.”

  With slow, deliberate movements, he sets aside his weapons and removes his fur coat, revealing his bare chest beneath.

  Her snowball drops to the ground as he stalks toward her. Then, with a squeal, she takes off running.

  I lean a shoulder against the doorjamb, watching her scramble to pack snow into ammunition and duck behind a piling beneath the deck. Her laughter bubbles up as he pretends to search for her, his mock-serious expression adding to the playfulness of their game.

  I’m tempted to join them, but my thoughts are consumed with the bush plane.

  As they hurl snowballs at each other, I return to the garage, floating on the sound of her joy. Hell, maybe her little garden will grow. Even in the harshest conditions, life finds a way to push through.

  And so will we.

  Our survival depends on scraping by day to day, but the plane represents a chance at real escape, a flight toward something resembling a future.

  With a safety inspection to finish, piloting skills to learn, and a journey to plan, the responsibility sits heavily on my shoulders.

  For the next hour, I lose myself in the work and the satisfaction of my progress, each turn of the wrench, every inspection and adjustment inching closer to our escape.

  But at some point, the absence of laughter and playful shouts from outside slices through my focus. I can’t hear them at all.

  What are they doing?

  I have an idea, and my sudden unease over being left out pulls me away from the plane.

  Grabbing a towel, I clean my hands on my way to the door and step outside.

  Stillness greets me. They’re nowhere in sight.

  Instinctively, I follow the tracks they left behind like a breadcrumb trail in the snow. The path meanders in every direction before aligning with purpose toward the sauna.

  Now that we have coal again, we’ve been able to use the steam bath. But only occasionally. It’s not a practical way to keep warm since it requires so much maintenance and coal.

  As I approach the building, the reality of this special occasion tightens my stomach.

  He’s fucking her in there. That’s what I would be doing.

  The thought tunnels through me, hot and electric, a restless energy taking hold.

  Pausing at the door, I brace an arm on the frame, reluctant to intrude.

  We share her, but we haven’t shared her. Not the way I’ve seen two men share a woman in porn videos.

  Over the past few weeks, he’s watched her with me. I’ve watched her with him. Sometimes we take turns. But our focus is and always will be on her. That’s the only way this works.

  When we’re with her, we draw an invisible line between us. One accidental brush across that line could resurrect demons, memories of childhood trauma, and battles lost against the devil himself.

  Then there’s the issue of our blood ties. We don’t know if we’re brothers by birth, but we’re brothers in every way that counts. The very thought of touching Kody in a sexual way makes me sick.

  Yet, it’s the bond that ties us together, strengthened by tragedy and shared dreams, that propels me into the sauna.

  With a single step inside, I can hear her moaning. By the time I strip my clothes, I’m hard as steel.

  As I open the interior door, I can’t see them through the haze of escaping steam. But I feel her, smell her, taste her in the humid air.

  Lowering onto the opposite end of their bench, I relax against the wall and wait for the swirling mist to settle.

  Slowly the fog lifts, and there she is, magnificently nude, with her head thrown back, eyes closed, and legs spread wide as she grinds herself on Kody’s face.

  He grabs her by the hips and buries his tongue, licking, sucking, and flicking over her again and again.

  A flush creeps up her neck, betraying the heat igniting beneath her skin. Her lips are red and swollen from how hard she bites them. Or maybe how hard he was biting them.

  Either way, she looks stunning.

  Her body writhes against his mouth, fluid and hypnotic, as she chases her pleasure.

  Leaning back, he spits on her opening and pushes two fingers inside her.

  My own fingers twitch, itching to close the distance and join with his as he twists his wrist and strokes her deep.

  Her eyes fly open, colliding with mine, as a low, husky moan tumbles from her lips.

  He’s become adept at navigating her body, building her need, and drawing it out with impressive proficiency.

  Her pussy glistens around his fingers. He kisses her there, lapping and biting at her clit until she grabs his hair and pulls his mouth to hers.

  My cock juts from between my legs, stiff and aching, but I don’t touch it. I can get off just from watching her in the throes of unfiltered passion. The wetness of my excitement leaks glossy strings down my shaft and onto my thigh.

  He continues to fuck her with his fingers as he kisses her, breathless. When they come up for air, he presses his face against her neck, working his hand and groaning from the sheer pleasure of touching her.

  I hold her gaze through her shuddering release, through the blood rushing in my ears. She cries out. Her head falls back. Her nails dig into his scarred flesh, and her thighs clench around his wrist.

  As he fingers her through the orgasm, my cock throbs, thickening further, dripping with the need to explode.

 

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