I feel my face fill with worry. “Are we turning around?”

“Can’t. We’re here, anyway.” The right wing tips and we begin to descend.

Chapter 21

“This is definitely the right place?” I mutter, huddled within my slicker, my head bowed as I trail Jonah along a narrow footpath that cuts through the forest of spruce trees and leggy ground cover. It’s a trek from where we left the plane. My jaw is sore from clenching my teeth so tight with that bumpy landing, and my leggings are soaked from rain that’s coming down more sideways than straight.

“It’s the only place around here.”

A branch snaps somewhere to our right, loud enough to carry through the downpour. “Jonah . . .” I hold my breath as my head whips around, my eyes searching the trees.

“Relax. Our plane would have spooked most things. It’s probably the Lannerds.”

“Right.” I speed up to close the distance between us all the same, shielding my eyes with my hand as I take in an archway. Someone constructed it out of tree trunks and rope. A hand-carved wooden sign dangles from the center; a set of antlers sits on top. It’s fitting and oddly welcoming, out here in the middle of the middle of nowhere.

A small log cabin sits up ahead. It looks to be well cared for and supplied, the pile of cut logs and twiggy brush stacked by a simple wood door substantial. On the right is a rustic shelving unit that holds various boxes, tools, string, work gloves, and two black tanks with FLAMMABLE warning stickers plastered to them. Various tools hang on the exterior wall from pegs, protected from the inclement weather by a wide overhang.

“ ‘Public Shelter Cabin,’ ” I read from the sign above the door, my eyes drifting to the enormous set of antlers mounted above it, and the snowshoes on either side. “Is this for anyone to use?”

“Pretty much. It’s been here forever. Since, like, the 1930s, I think. It’s mostly used during the Iditarod. That’s one of the big dogsled races in Alaska,” he adds, rapping his knuckles against the door. “Hello?” He waits three beats and then yanks the door open and walks in.

It smells exactly how I’d expect a ninety-year-old cabin in the mountains to smell—like musty wood and damp soot.

“They haven’t made it here yet,” Jonah declares, followed by a sharp, “Fuck.”

There’s certainly no evidence to suggest they’re here now. The three tiny windows are all boarded up from the outside by plywood. The bunk beds in the far corners—simple frames of wood slapped together and bolted to hold—are absent of any sleeping bags.

The wooden picnic table beside the woodstove is bare of supplies. There are supplies here—lanterns hanging from hooks, rolls of toilet paper and tubs of baby wipes stacked on shelves, a jug of Crisco oil sitting on a long makeshift counter next to an array of pots and pans—but I suspect those were left by previous inhabitants, or by the caretakers.

“Maybe they left because we were late?”

He crouches down to open up and peer inside the woodstove. “No . . . with all this rain, they’d need a fire, and this hasn’t been used in a while. Besides, they knew the pickup date would be pending weather.”

“So, where are they, then?”

He stands and pushes a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back. “Good fucking question.” His jaw clenches.

“Do you think they’re lost?”

“They wouldn’t be the first.” He drums his fingertips against the table in thought. “They had a sat phone, but they didn’t use it.”

A darker, more sinister thought strikes me, after our earlier conversation. “What if something got them? You know, like a bear?”

“That doesn’t happen too often,” he murmurs, but he’s wearing a troubled frown. “You didn’t notice any tents or rain gear or anything when we were flying in, did you?”

“No. Nothing.” The last sign of another human being—aside from the guy in the plane—was a fishing boat anchored on the river, a good ten minutes before we entered the mountain range.

He studies the dusty, worn wood floorboards intently. “They should have been here on Thursday night for a Friday pickup. That means they’re almost two days behind.”

“Did they say where they were going?”

“Through Rainy Pass. They gave me a map. They could be stuck up there because of the heavy rain, or they could have slipped along the muddy terrain. The river could have swelled on them . . . Who the fuck knows.” Jonah wanders out the door to stand under the overhang, his gaze drifting to the mountain ridge that looms, in thought.

“You’re not thinking of going back up to look for them, are you?” When he doesn’t answer me, I know that’s exactly what he’s thinking. “You are not going up there in this to look for them.”

He curses, his hands smoothing over his beard. “No, I’m not.”

Relief overwhelms me.

He pulls out his satellite phone from his pocket. “I’m gonna call this in.”

I huddle against the door frame, listening to rain beat against the roof and Jonah explain the situation to someone—my dad, I’m guessing. The connection must be poor, because Jonah is speaking loudly and repeats himself several times, emphasizing “no hikers,” “heavy rain,” and “staying here.”