Pain and regret exploded in Truman’s head. “Yes.”

Ollie’s chest expanded with several deep breaths, and Truman put a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t know that they hurt her.”

Unless you include a beating and being dumped in a storage unit.

“Mercy’s odds aren’t very good, Truman. She should have turned up by now.” The teen’s face crumpled, and he strove to pull himself together.

Truman embraced him, clueless as to what to say, because the same sentence had been on repeat in his brain.

Mercy’s odds aren’t very good.

Truman turned off the rural road in the Cascade foothills onto the long drive that led to Mercy’s cabin.

Our cabin.

He had been compelled to come, driven by an unreasonable hope that Mercy was at her cabin and unable to communicate. The feeling was illogical, but checking the cabin was the only way to eliminate the nagging question in his brain.

The new A-frame stood proudly where her original cabin had burned to the ground last spring. Mercy had crossed paths with an angry serial killer and his intended victim, and the result had been the loss of her cabin and a bullet hole in Mercy’s leg.

Truman parked and stared at the new building. No one came out to greet him or waved from a window, and the hole in his heart ripped a little bigger. Her absence was overwhelming. The home was Mercy, a symbol of her determination, hard work, and obsession. She’d poured her soul into every bit of it.

His heart and feet heavy, Truman got out and went to check the large snow-covered stacks near the storage barn. He brushed four inches off one pile. The stacks were the panels and aluminum framing he’d ordered to build Mercy a greenhouse.

The greenhouse was a secret.

Due to her heavy workload, Mercy hadn’t been to the cabin in three weeks. A record for her. In fact, during the previous two months, she and Truman had had to visit at different times, unable to make their schedules coordinate. She didn’t know Truman had poured a concrete foundation for the greenhouse and started building a knee wall, working like a madman to make progress before the snow fell.

He walked across the foundation, leaving crisp boot-shaped prints in the snow. He tapped the half-built knee wall with his toe. It would be gorgeous when finished. An Eagle’s Nest resident had given him the river rocks for free in exchange for removing them from her property. The greenhouse didn’t need a knee wall. He could have quickly assembled it with the polycarbonate walls simply extending to the concrete. But he’d found a picture of an elegant greenhouse and instantly known it was a perfect way to personalize hers, embedding his love and heart in the construction.

It was her wedding present.

Few people would appreciate a greenhouse as a wedding gift, but it was perfect for practical, prepared Mercy. It would be strong and durable, built to last. Made with extruded aluminum framing and shatterproof polycarbonate panels, it would hold up to four feet of snow on its roof. To him the structure stood for so much more than growing plants. It represented their future, one they’d build and grow together.

Mercy would understand.

He left the concrete slab behind, no longer able to look at his half-finished project, and strode to the house. The interior had finally been finished with a lot of hard work from the four of them. It had two bedrooms, two small bathrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a good-size family space. “Not too big,” Mercy had said over and over, hating the thought of having to heat the cabin during the winter.

Truman smiled, hearing her voice in his head. She’d known exactly what she wanted.

He jogged up the steps to the back door, kicking the snow from his boots. As he unlocked the door, he turned and looked at the forested property behind him. Right here he’d discovered Mercy’s “dirty little secret.” Truman had known her for only a few days, the smart and driven Portland FBI agent who’d come to help solve his uncle’s murder, but he had followed her, wondering where she disappeared to at night. He had found her here, chopping wood at midnight and unable to relax until she knew she had done everything possible to prepare her cabin in case of disaster.

It had been eye-opening.

That night he saw her and came to understand the woman who’d captured his attention and heart.

Mercy had relaxed over her obsession in the last year but still stayed on her toes. She still checked international news and markets, looking for early signs of collapse, and she still harped at Ollie and Kaylie to always have their GOOD bags ready to go and additional smaller ones stored in their vehicles.

He stepped inside, the smell of fresh paint greeting him. The home was partially furnished. Mercy and Kaylie had haunted garage sales and antique stores all summer, on the hunt for the practical pieces she wanted. A simple couch, chairs, and coffee table sat in the family room. A table for four was adjacent to the functional kitchen. An elegant wall decal above the table read, FAMILY MAKES THIS HOUSE A HOME.

He stopped and stared, reading it over and over. He hadn’t seen it before.

The decal had to be Kaylie’s touch. Mercy wouldn’t have chosen something so sentimental.

His lips quirked in a half smile.

Damn, I miss my stubborn, clever woman.

A piercing pain radiated in his chest, and he briefly shut his eyes against the grief.

She’s alive. I know it. I’d feel it if she wasn’t . . .

Standing absolutely still, he waited, hoping for some sound or sight from the universe to indicate he was right.

Nothing.

The house was silent. Its plain white walls and simple furnishings waiting for her return.

Like him.

I’m being ridiculous.

He shook himself and marched up the staircase to the loft bedroom and bath they’d designed for themselves. Mercy had bought a bed, but they had left finishing the room for last, striving to get the important rooms like the kitchen and baths functional first.

He entered the loft and caught his breath, his heart in his throat. Mercy had worked on the room without telling him. The space had been painted a relaxing blue, and tranquil watercolor art hung on the walls. A fluffy down comforter covered the bed. Last time he’d set foot in the loft, the walls had been white, and sleeping bags had been on the bed. Now the room was a harmony of creamy yellows and cool blues.

She had bought throw pillows, and a thickly padded chair sat in one corner next to an empty bookcase, patiently waiting to be filled with books.

It was homey.

I’m not the only one hiding surprises.

What if we never share that bed again?

He steeled himself against the abrupt rush of grief.

Tomorrow he’d find her and bring her home.

THIRTY-THREE

The morning after he had informed Mercy’s family that she was missing, Truman and Evan Bolton parked along a forest service road to start their search for her. Truman slammed the door to his Tahoe and swore at the surrounding snow. Bolton did the same on the passenger side. Both men had pored over maps, looking for a beginning location that was far enough away from the FBI base camp but close enough to the compound. The disaster at America’s Preserve had happened six days ago. The investigation and search for Mercy and the missing teenager had been scaled down, but coverage of the incident was gaining massive steam in the media.

The ATF and FBI were being slaughtered in the court of public opinion, the nation furious at the loss of life.

It had taken a few days, but the FBI had publicly admitted that an agent had gone missing during the incident while keeping Mercy’s name private. Eddie had told Truman that he had joined other agents in another search outside the compound with no results. The FBI had brought in ground-penetrating radar and found another grave on the edge of the compound. This time holding two men.

But no Mercy.