She was nauseated and dizzy. She needed to eat, but knew without a doubt that she’d vomit up anything she put in her mouth.

How the hell did Xavier and the others do this sort of thing?

This was their job.

She’d always respected the men and women who served in the military, but this was the first time she’d ever faced the reality of their world.

She’d spent hours chatting with Undine’s husband, Luke, and even knew a bit about what he’d done when an old Russian nuke—a Cold War leftover—had been found in the Strait of Juan de Fuca a few years ago. But even that threat—which could have resulted in a massive tsunami that would have wiped out the Pacific Northwest—hadn’t held this level of tangible fear, because she’d heard about it more than a year after the danger had passed.

Now she understood in a way that she never could have grasped before. This was even worse than last night, when she’d paced and talked to the baby alone in the Jamison cabin.

Last night, she’d believed she was safe and Xavier would be back in a matter of hours. Tonight, she knew that improvised bombs would begin to go off in a matter of minutes.

What if she was wrong in her interpretation of George’s note? What if he hadn’t been able to enter the lodge and the bigfoot door was locked and guarded?

Sure, she’d been right about the donkey engine, but that had been easy. Lightbulbs in the library was a bigger leap.

This was the world’s worst game of Clue.

Time moved with aching slowness as she committed more federal crimes by looking at the stack of mail in the “undeliverable” bin.

Even though there were no windows for light to leak through, she used the red-tipped flashlight to read the envelopes.

This was a rotten invasion of privacy, but it was keeping her from losing her mind.

She paused on an envelope addressed to Jeb. “Addressee unknown” was written in his messy scrawl. She knew his handwriting from the numerous times he’d petitioned her office to step in and use the National Historic Preservation Act to prevent something from happening in the park.

Jeb would always be a mystery now, and her grief at never really having known him grew.

She left the stacks of mail and slipped into the front of the post office. She’d been in this vestibule many times. The entire building—including the attached museum—was a contributing element to the National Register Historic District. But never had the tiny space seemed so…ominous.

Across the street, a battle would be waged in a matter of minutes. And it wasn’t just any battle, it was potentially the first salvo of a Russian invasion of American soil.