Page 61 of Montana Memory

I wasn’t surprised to hear her say that. But I wanted to make sure she thought it through first. I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms. “Are you sure that’s the route youwant to take? You said yourself back at the picnic—that maybe you wouldn’t take it even if it existed.”

“That was before I knew everything.” She let out a slow, controlled breath. “Before I knew exactly what I did. Who I was.” She swallowed hard. “If there’s an antidote, I have to take it.”

I studied her, trying to read between the lines. “Even if it brings you more pain?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Ideservethe pain.”

I went still. Jada’s eyes burned with something raw, something that made my chest tighten.

“I was stupid,” she said, voice rough. “Gullible. I let Alan manipulate me, and because of that, I hurt people. Kenzie. Maybe others. I don’t even know the full extent of the damage I caused, and Ishouldknow. I should remember every single thing I did so I can live with it for the rest of my life.”

I exhaled slowly. I could see the guilt she carried was ripping her up inside, bleeding through. Jada was already teetering on the edge.

She straightened, her chin lifting. “I’m going.”

I wasn’t letting her go alone.

I nodded once. “Then I’m going with you.”

Her lips parted slightly, like she hadn’t expected me to say it, but I didn’t give her time to argue.

“You want the truth?” I pushed off the counter and closed the space between us. “Then we go get it. Together.”

Chapter 20

Hunter

The road into the trailer park was more cratered than paved, each pothole rattling my truck’s suspension. Rusted-out cars sat abandoned in dirt patches that barely passed for front yards, weeds creeping through broken windows, paint peeling in long, curling strips from the sides of the single-wide trailers. I’d seen worse places, but not by much.

This definitely wasn’t where a millionaire ex-scientist should be living.

Jada shifted in the seat beside me, adjusting the blanket she’d wrapped around the kittens. They were nestled in her lap, tiny bodies rising and falling with each soft breath. She stroked a finger along Sir Pounce’s head, her voice a hushed murmur. I couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t matter. The gentleness in her tone was enough.

She needed them right now. Needed something soft and sweet to hold on to. She’d hardly slept at all last night.

As I pulled the truck into a spot outside Beckett’s trailer, my body went tight, instincts kicking to life in a way I couldn’t shut off. I felt like we were being watched. My muscles coiled, breath slowing, senses sharpening. The familiar itch between my shoulder blades set in, that deep, animal awareness of eyes being on me.

I knew better. Logically, no one would know we were here. Jace hadn’t found a single trace of surveillance on Beckett—no red flags, no alerts that we’d be showing up. Just an ex-scientist who’d disappeared from the world, living in a dump like this instead of the mansion his bank account could have afforded.

Nobody was watching us. Still, my PTSD didn’t care about logic.

I scanned the row of trailers, my gaze skipping over broken porch steps, sagging roofs, trash bags stacked against chain-link fences. A small, boxy TV flickered inside one of the units, the dim glow making the dirt-smeared window look like a fish tank. Nobody was visible, but I still didn’t relax.

I exhaled slowly, forcing the tension down. We weren’t here to fight. We were here for answers. I needed to get myself under control.

Jada unbuckled her seat belt, carefully putting the kittens back in their box. “This is where he lives?”

I glanced at the faded numbers nailed to the side of the trailer. “Yeah.”

We got out and walked toward Beckett’s trailer. The rickety wooden steps groaned beneath my weight as I reached the front door. A battered screen hung half off its hinges, and the door behind it was a sickly shade of yellow, grime caked around the handle. I knocked twice, firm but not aggressive, keeping Jada a step behind me.

Movement rustled inside. A shuffle of feet. The door cracked open a few inches, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of a bloodshot eye and a mess of greasy hair.

Then the smell hit.Jesus.

The door swung open fully, and I locked eyes with Dr. Anthony Beckett—what was left of him anyway. He was tall but gaunt, his shirt hanging off his frame like it belonged to someone bigger. His face was unshaven, his jaw hollowed out, cheeks sunken. But what stood out the most was the way his hands trembled at his sides, a constant, uneven twitching that told me he was either strung out or sick. Maybe both.

This was going to be a challenge.

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