No. He wouldn’t get involved in the unexplained death. He’d left the need to hunt down killers in his past life—that was, if Axl Baker hadn’t died of natural causes. A few stray snowflakes danced on the wind. He looked at the mountains and the peak was gone—completely obscured by the clouds. Soon enough, the storm would be in the valley and Wyatt didn’t want to be caught lingering by the old schoolhouse.
Turning back to the track, Wyatt began the walk to his waiting truck. From there, he’d take the road home and return to the life that kept him safe. Sheltered.
Alone.
Everly was swimming. The water was dark and cold. The surface hovered above her, just out of reach. A voice called to her from the shore.
“Ms. Baker? Ms. Baker? Can you hear me?”
Everly wanted to speak, but her mouth filled with murky water. Gasping, she broke the surface and found that she was lying on a carpeted floor. She could feel a rough mark imprinted on her cheek, yet nothing else seemed real.
“Ms. Baker?” A tall blond woman was kneeling next to Everly.
And then it all came back to her—Axl’s death, his missing camera, her stealing the keycard to get into his room. But why was she on the floor?
“Ms. Baker, can you hear me?” It was the woman who worked at the front desk and her name was Darcy; she now remembered that, too.
“What happened?” Everly’s mouth was dry, her lip was tender.
“I came down the hall and saw that the door was opened a bit. I thought maybe one of the deputies had come by. I almost closed it without looking, but I peeked in and saw you on the floor.”
Everly sat up—the back of her head throbbed. She glanced at the bedside clock. She’d only been out for a few minutes. “I was hit,” she said, recalling the single glimpse of the silhouette in the mirror.
“Hit?” echoed Darcy. Her voice was a whisper. “By who?”
“I didn’t see a face,” said Everly. “Just a shadow.”
“Are you sure? There wasn’t anyone in the hall. Nobody came through the lobby, either.”
“Well, I know what I saw, and I know what happened to me,” Everly insisted.
“You wait here,” said Darcy as she got to her feet. “I’m going to call Sheriff Haak, and the doctor, too. A hit to the head that’s strong enough to knock you out probably gave you a concussion.”
The sheriff? So far Darcy hadn’t pressed Everly for how she got into the room, even though it was obvious. What would the sheriff say? Certainly, Everly had broken at least one law when she stole the keycard and entered a room that wasn’t hers—the official order to stay out notwithstanding.
Then again, Everly would bet anything that the attack hadn’t been random. She’d been targeted. That didn’t put anyone else at risk, but it left her exposed. The bump on the back of her head was a warning—nothing more. If anyone wanted her dead, they could’ve easily killed her in the minutes that she was unconscious. The thought left her chilled, and she crossed her arms over her chest to staunch a tremble.
“Hold on a second,” she called to Darcy. Everly stood slowly, the throbbing at the back of her head increasing in tempo and intensity. “I’m not sure that I was hit. I mean, I hit the back of my head—but I might have fainted and come down on the edge of the nightstand.”
“You were so sure you’d been attacked just a minute ago.”
“My brother died unexpectedly, and I flew all night from Chicago to be here. I was standing in his room and it smells like he did, you know. It was overwhelming.” Everly sighed and touched the lump on the back of her head. She winced. “To be honest, there’s nothing that I’m actually sure of right now.”
“Even if you don’t know, you should still talk to the sheriff.”
“I really don’t want him involved.”
Darcy shook her head. “You have been through a lot and I don’t want to make trouble for you. Just, please, don’t make any more trouble for yourself. Sheriff Haak is a good man—he’ll figure out what happened.”
“I hope so,” said Everly.
“If you fell, you still need to see a doctor. I can call him for you.”
“I’ve met Doc Lambert already. I’ll get in touch once I get to my room,” said Everly, even though she had no intention of calling anyone.
“Are you sure?” asked Darcy.
As if to prove that she was fit, Everly grabbed the handle of her suitcase and rolled it from the room. “Positive,” she said, then added, “Thanks for everything.”
Darcy followed Everly and pulled the door closed. “Call the front desk if you need anything at all—that’s legal at least.”
Everly held out the purloined keycard. “Sorry about that,” she said.
Darcy took the card. “Just don’t do it again, and we’ll be even.”
After giving the desk clerk a wave, she walked to the elevator. Thank goodness Everly knew how to sell a story. In fact, her bit about fainting had been so convincing that Everly almost believed it herself. Now that she didn’t have to deal with the sheriff, she needed to find out who would want to keep her away from Axl’s death.
In her estimation, there was only one suspect. It was the same man who wanted her gone and had also found her brother’s body.
Everly wheeled the luggage to her room and entered. Despite the fact that her head still throbbed, she sat at the desk. Removing her laptop, she powered it up and entered two words into the search engine. Wyatt Thornton.
There wasn’t much on the internet about Wyatt Thornton. A real-estate transaction, along with a local address. She wrote down the address. And a notice that he’d adopted a dog from a county rescue.
There had to be more. In this day and age, nobody lived off the grid. And if they did, it was because they didn’t want to be found.
She tried again. W. Thornton.
The search was met with a question. Did you mean Special Agent W. Thornton? Thousands of hits followed. She scanned headlines from articles about a notorious serial killer in Las Vegas and the FBI profiler in charge of the case: W. Thornton. She moved the cursor to hover over the No icon. Then she stopped. Her eye was drawn to a photograph of several FBI agents, and one of them was unquestionably the same one she met earlier today, Wyatt Thornton.
His hair was longer now, with just a touch of gray that he hadn’t had when the photo had been taken years ago. The suit he wore had been replaced with jeans, but it was him.
Immediately she wondered why he’d come to Wyoming and, more important, why not tell Everly if he had a professional opinion about her brother’s death?
She clicked on the article, which was four years old. A string of killings—all single men—had stunned the hard-to-shock city of Las Vegas. The FBI, through their behavioral scientist, Thornton, had a suspect. On closer scrutiny, the suspect had an alibi for one of the killings. It was a fact that had been missed, or possibly suppressed, by Thornton.
The media didn’t have a killer, but they had an incompetent or possibly dishonest FBI agent. Thornton had been crucified by the press. And the killings? They stopped. One subsequent article wondered if it hadn’t been a fabrication of Thornton’s all along.
For a moment, she felt sorry for Wyatt. And then she wondered—if he’d have come to her for public-relations help, what