Page 109 of Fool Me

“What—what are you talking about?” He’s not making sense, but maybe if I can keep him talking I’ll be okay. I can talk him down. I have training in this. “Canyon, I just want to understand. Can you help me?” I don’t hide the fear in my voice this time or try to sound sweet.

“The job, Harlowe. They picked you—everyone picks you. My family. Search and rescue. You’re not even from here. They’ve known me all my life, and you just waltz in and take everything.”

That’s not at all what happened.

“You could still get the job, Canyon. Are you really going to throw that all away over me?”

“You’re not listening. Fuck—” He pulls at his hair, turning toward me and taking his eyes off the road for too long. “The only chance I have is you turning it down.”

I don’t even have time to process what he’s saying. I lunge for the steering wheel and he pushes me back, holding on to the wheel with one hand.

“They already decided. I stopped by the shed this morning and heard Travis talking to Sheriff Evans. You got the fucking job, not me.”

“Stop!” He’s going too fast for the corner, even with two hands and a clear head. My screams fill the car as I cover my head and just try to hang on.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-NINE

ATLAS

It’s not an emergency.

At least, not in the usual sense, but Marilyn is falling apart on the other end of the line. If I had to guess, she’s on the verge of a panic attack.

Marilyn’s voice is trembling on the other end of the call, and in the background, I can hear frantic squawking—sharp, offended, and very much alive.

“She won’t eat, and her eye’s been twitching and I just—she’s never acted like this before,” she says, barely holding it together. “You always know what to do. I’m sorry, I know it’s Founder’s Day, and you probably had plans, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

I press my hand to the side of my face, exhaling slowly. “It’s okay. I’m glad you called.”

Betty White is fine. Stressed? Maybe. Acting out? Probably. Birds like Betty White mirror what they see, and Marilyn’s been lonely since her husband left again.

I talk her through some calming techniques—soft lighting, grounding exercises, the 5-4-3-2-1 method. By the time we hang up, her voice is steadier, and the parrot’s stopped yelling “Mommy!” at top volume.

She thanks me three times before I can even say goodbye.

I slip my phone into my back pocket, shake out my hands, and head back into the bar.

Jude’s is still just as loud as when I walked out. More people pour in before the nighttime chairlift rides start. I push through the crowd, eyes scanning for the white tank top Harlowe was wearing, and the blonde hair I always spot first.

Nothing.

I head to the bar stool where I left her. Empty.

She’s not by the dart boards, on the dance floor, or anywhere else.

My chest tightens. She wouldn’t have just left.

“Jude!” I call, grabbing his attention as he pours a beer. “You seen Harlowe?”

Jude frowns, setting the drink down. “She left with your brother about five minutes ago.”

“She didwhat?” I say a little too loudly. He gives me an apologetic look.

I’m halfway to the door, unsure where I’m going, just that I need to find her when my phone buzzes in my hand.

Harlowe.

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