The water was heated by an on-demand heater, and now she flicked it on and waited for it to warm. She stoppered the tub, not wanting to waste the water. It spilled out cold, then warmer, and finally hot enough for her to get in.

She sudsed up her hair and was just rinsing when the water died to a trickle.

Oh no. How had the tank gotten this empty?

She rinsed her hair with the water still in the tub, then let it out, shivering.

Winding her hair up in a towel, she pulled on sweatpants, a thermal shirt, and wool socks. Then she headed out to the kitchen.

Outside, night had descended, thick and cold. Somewhere in the darkness, a wolf howled.

Maybe she wouldn’t trek out to the river in the pitch-darkness, open up the thermal plug in their river outlet, attach the hose, and run the pump to fill the tank in the below-freezing temperature.

But tomorrow she was going out after Peyton again, even if Dodge didn’t want to, so . . .

She walked back to her father’s office. Still, the light bled out under the door. She knocked again. No answer. “Dad?”

Nothing.

“Um, we’re out of water. And I need to go back out on the trail tomorrow . . .”

Nothing. She put her hand on the knob, debated—sometimes he got so engrossed with his tracking software that he didn’t hear her—and then, slowly, so as not to wake him if he was sleeping, she opened the door.

The recliner was empty. A half-finished coffee cup sat on the desk, and the computer was dark.

Charts were spread out on the desk. She walked over and studied them. Patterns of Elsa’s movement over the past three years. And below that, a map. She pulled it out. Her dad had marked the area of Elsa’s most recent telemetry, including the place where he supposed her current den might be.

Perfect. She sat in the chair. “Oh, Dad. What have you done now?”

At least she was warm. Agonizingly so, with the pain starting in her feet and moving through her body. But warmth, all the same, and she sank into it, letting it cover her.

She remembered the house, some. Remembered sitting by a fire or a stove or maybe she’d simply dreamed it, having wanted it so badly.

Noises. And then a voice. A man’s voice, and she leaned into it, wanting it.

Or not, because then he was back.

Her breaths came fast, and she could almost feel his hands on her, imprisoning her. And, as if she were back there—the drone of an engine.

She could almost see him laughing at her as she tried to flee, to fight him, despite the cost.

The crash was her fault. Of course it was her fault. Anything to get away from him.

Oh, she hoped that she hadn’t already cost lives.