"I don't like it,” Shaun muttered, folding his arms moodily over his chest. "We agreed: no people. Going down there is too risky."
"I'll go down first,” I offered. "I'll look in the window. I'm not going to run away-I've already had enough chances. Where would I even go?"
"If anyone's going, it's me,” Shaun said. "I have the gun."
At the reminder, I drew a silent intake of air. Would the ranger have a gun of his own? I didn't know. I hoped I knew what I was doing. I hoped, when this was over, I still thought leading us here was a good plan.
Mason gave his friend a nod of consent. "See what you can find." Gun in hand, Shaun ran in a crouch downhill, making his way
toward the dark, sleepy-looking patrol cabin dwarfed by dense evergreens whose tips seemed to sweep the sky.
"He'll be back soon,” Mason said, as if the thought should comfort me.
"When are you going to tell me who you're running from and why?" I asked, as soon as we were alone.
He merely looked at me. I couldn't decide if the root of his silence was arrogance or carefulness. He seemed like the kind of guy who weighed each word, each movement. Carefulness, I decided. Because he had a lot to hide.
"It's the police, I know it is, so you can stop pretending like you don't know what I'm talking about. You did something illegal. And now you're only making things worse by kidnapping me."
"Do you think your dad knows you never reached the cabin?" he asked, avoiding the subject. "Were you supposed to call him and check in when you got there?"
"I told him I'd call,” I admitted, wondering what Mason was getting at.
"Your dad won't be able to get up here in this weather, and even if he could, he won't know where to look for you, but do you think he's called the park and notified them that you never made it to the cabin? Or were you telling the truth when you said your dad thinks you can get yourself out of trouble?"
I regarded him warily. "I told Shaun my dad knows I can handle myself, but I didn't tell you. When Shaun and I were in the kitchen cooking, were you eavesdropping?"
"Of course I was listening,” he said, covering up any embarrassment with a tone of annoyance.
"Why?"
"I had to know what you told Shaun.”
”Why?"
He gave me a long, considering look, but he didn't answer. "Were you spying on me . . . or Shaun? Are you and Shaun even friends?"I was suddenly prompted to ask the question because of the strange tension I sensed between them. Maybe I'd been wrong this whole time. Maybe they weren't friends. But then, why were they together? One thing I knew for sure. I was far more afraid of Shaun. I would never ask him these questions, or even take this tone with him.
"What makes you think we're not?" he said in that same clipped, irritated voice.
"He lied to you. He told you I tried to kill myself, but he made the marks on my neck."
I could tell by the lack of surprise in his expression that he knew Shaun had been the one to hurt me.
"Was he afraid of what you'd do to him? Does he know you don't want me to get hurt? Is that why he lied?"
"Do you really think I'd step in and stop him from hurting you?" he demanded curtly. "Why would I do that?"
I recoiled at the hot contempt flashing in his eyes.
"You girls are all the same,” he muttered with disgust. "What does that mean?"
"You think I'll save you."He said it accusingly, bitterly. His eyes found mine, and even in the cold, pink light of dawn, I could see deep pain broiling in his gaze.
The back of my throat felt slippery. Any remaining fragment of hope seemed to crumble inside me. He wouldn't help me. I'd been wrong about him; he wouldn't soften. He was as useless to me as Shaun.
I wanted to turn away in indignation, to show him he couldn't treat me this way, but I couldn't afford to waste the time I had alone with him. Pushing down my despair, I focused on the questions I needed to ask. "Why did you lie about finding Korbie's insulin?"
"To cover for you. Shaun would have known you played him. How do you think he would have handled that? Think about it, Britt. I need you to get me off this mountain. You're no good to me dead."
"You lied to help yourself."
"I've seen the way you look at me, Britt. You think I'll protect you. You think when it comes down to moral obligation, I'll do the right thing. I'm not the same as Shaun, but I'm not good." He wasn't looking at me anymore, but rather off in the distance. He had the ragged, unpredictable look of someone haunted by old ghosts. An uneasy chill crept inside me. I began to believe he might be more dangerous than Shaun. That he was biding his time, playing Shaun's game with Shaun's rules, until the moment he was ready to make his move. . . .
The crunch of snow alerted us to Shaun's return. I jerked toward the sound, my eyes immediately going to the gun in his grip. He hadn't used it-I would have heard the shot. Even so, the way he held it, a natural, practiced extension of his hand, made my spine stiffen.
He grinned. "All clear. It looks like a park ranger outpost. No one has been there in days."
The hope I'd been clinging to seemed to deflate inside me. Empty? For days? I was so heartsick, I wanted to kneel in the snow and sob.
"Even better, there's lots to loot. Canned food, bedding, and dry firewood under a tarp around back,” Shaun continued, with a greedy gleam in his eyes.
Beside me, Mason relaxed. "We'll refuel, and crash here for a couple hours."
We hiked down to the patrol cabin. At the door, Shaun shoved us how he'd gotten inside; he waved the key with a display of entitlement. "Found it under the doormat,” he explained. "Stupid, trusting fools."
Mason held the door for me, and I stepped inside, not taking in the whole cabin at once, but searching for specific signs that Shaun had missed something, that a ranger had been here recently and might return soon.
The stale air was thick with dust. There were no dishes on the kitchen counters, no lingering smells of coffee. No wet, muddy footprints on the linoleum. A bar separated the kitchen from the living area. One corduroy sofa, a southwestern rug, and a beat-up trunk that served as a coffee table. No dishes there either, and no newspapers. Nestled into the corner beside the fireplace was an antique rocking chair that bore a fine layer of dust. A door at the end of the living room led to a small bedroom with a sloped roof.
Mason went to gather firewood, and soon after, dumped an armful of wood near the fireplace and started building a fire. Shaun kicked off his boots, tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, and ambled to the bedroom. He flopped facedown on the mattress.