Page 24 of Huck Frasier
I slid my boots on quietly, grabbed a file folder I’d been hiding in the truck, and drove to town. No missions today. No gear checks or gun range drills. Just me and a lead that had been eating at me since the night Marley fell apart in my arms.
Her mom was alive.
Or at least, she had been five years ago.
I zoomed into the town clerk’s office in Haven, New Mexico, while I sat in the clerk's office in Kalispell, Montana. It was one of those places that smelled like paper, mildew, and old grudges—the kind of place where secrets went to die slowly.
The woman joined the Zoom call, and I flashed a casual smile, laying out a perfectly legal-looking request for historical health and residency records under the name Janice Bennett, with a last known address thirty minutes outside the city. No one asked questions. She pushed some buttons on her computer, and files showed up in front of me. Most were dead ends—late rent notices, a police report from when Marley was sixteen, complaints from neighbors about yelling. Then one form stuck out.
72-hour psychiatric hold.
Filed six months before she vanished.
It said she was released into the custody of an “outpatient support center” in New Mexico.
But there was no discharge paperwork. No further records. Just a signature that didn’t match any name in the file.
I scanned a copy and took photos of the rest.
Then I called in a favor from a friend in border intel. Someone who could quietly check if that “center” even existed anymore.
When I left the clerk’s office, the sun had climbed high and hot. I stopped by a gas station, grabbed a drink, and checked my phone.
Two missed calls.
One from Lark.
One from Marley.
I checked her voicemail first.
Her voice was tight. Controlled. Almost too calm.
“Hey… don’t be mad. I got a lead. It’s solid. I had to go. Arizona. I’ll check in soon, I promise. Don’t worry—I’m not disappearing. I’ll be back. I have to save the kids.”
I stood there on the sidewalk, the hum of a vending machine behind me, and realized I was holding my breath.
She was gone.
Again.
But it wasn’t like before. She hadn’t leftme.
She’d leftto fight.
And that was worse.
Because now I had two trails to follow. First, I wouldn’t let her fight the traffickers alone. She’s a journalist for crying out loud. She’s not an FBI agent.
One led to the ghost of a woman who broke her daughters.
The other led to Marley, risking herself for children no one else would fight for.
And God help anyone who tried to stop me from getting to either.
I dialed Axel. Straight to voicemail.
Then I started the truck and gunned it back toward the cabin.
