Page 24 of Finding Forever

eighteen

ERIC

Later that evening, I picked up my coffee cup and frowned. Empty again. I really needed to do something about the amount of caffeine I was drinking, but that could wait for another day. I had a hero on the brink of death and a medical examiner who couldn't find him. If Aaron died before he made it to the next scene, the story was over.

I rubbed my hand along my jaw as I walked across to my whiteboard. Aaron Connelly might be James Bond on steroids, but even he couldn't defy death. Something had to happen to give him another hour or two of breathing time, something no one was expecting.

“How will we do this, Sherlock?”

Without lifting his head, Sherlock looked up at me and sighed. He was a dog of few words, except when it came to mealtimes.

“Aaron’s been shot. He’s cold, hungry, and in the middle of a National Park. What would he do to stay alive?”

Sherlock yawned.

“He can’t sleep. The mafia’s closer than the medical examiner. How can we change that?”

Sherlock’s paws covered his eyes.

The story couldn’t be that bad. My eyes narrowed as I studied the next couple of scenes. Somewhere along the line, the medical examiner had missed an important clue. I needed to make sure he not only found it, but he linked it to Aaron’s disappearance.

After twenty minutes of tossing around different ideas, I was still no closer to getting out of the hole I’d painted my hero into.

Finding inspiration from within the cottage’s four walls wasn’t happening. In desperation, I grabbed my cap from a hook beside the front door. “Let’s go for a walk, Sherlock. It might clear the cobwebs from my brain.”

Sherlock leaped to his feet, almost nose-planting into the wooden floor in his haste to get outside.

With one word from me, he sat on the edge of the veranda instead of racing off into the wilderness.

After punching in the code for the security alarm, I headed toward Sherlock. “Good boy. Let’s see if we can buy our hero some time.” And hopefully, by the end of the night, Aaron Connelly wouldn’t be dead.

nineteen

RILEY

I sat on a log at the edge of the lake, feeling the stillness of the evening. It was so quiet, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. I was waiting for sunset, that magical moment when the sun dipped below the towering ranges, painting shadows across the rocks and trees.

I lifted my camera and snapped a picture of swallows racing across the water. My grandma gave me this camera before I flew to Paris. It was a going-away gift. A reminder to take plenty of photos so my grandparents could share in my adventures in Europe.

For the first two years, I sent lots of photos to Sunrise Bay. Then gradually, I stopped using the camera and started relying on my cell phone. Quick emails replaced my long letters, and phone calls home became less frequent.

What must my grandma and granddad have thought? They would have been heartbreakingly disappointed. As their only grandchild, I knew I held a special place in their hearts. But that didn’t stop me from focusing on my own life and ignoring them.

A noise farther down the shore caught my attention. I smiled when I saw Eric, then grinned when I realized he hadn’t noticed me. He walked closer to the edge of the lake, picked up a stone, and skimmed it across the water. Sherlock leaped after it, bounding through the water like an Olympic swimmer. His shaggy black coat stuck to his body like asphalt as he raced back to shore, ready for another round.

I focused my camera on Eric as he launched another rock into the air. The smile on his face made my breath catch. I’d never seen him so happy, so carefree. He was living in the moment, enjoying the time with Sherlock before the night sky sent them home.

Moving to the right, I took another photo. Sherlock’s head swiveled toward me. Before I could lower my camera, he ran across the stones, thumping through the lake and sending water everywhere.

I froze. Sherlock used to be a police dog. If he thought I was a stranger, I could lose an arm or a leg, or even my camera. Eric’s shrill whistle made Sherlock spin around and head back to shore. With trembling hands, I placed the camera in its bag and walked toward Eric. By the time I reached them, Sherlock’s tail was wagging. He barked at me like I was his long-lost friend.

I patted his wet head. “Hi, boy. Thanks for calling him back, Eric.”

“He’s a big dog. It can be frightening when he’s running toward you. Are you taking more photos for your painting?”

“I am. I need a few more of the mountains at sunset. How’s your book coming along?”

“My hero will die if the medical examiner doesn’t find him.”

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