I don't sleep well. I keep waking up covered in sweat, haunted by a phantom-Beau doing wonderful, sinful things to my body. The thread tied around my ribcage has eased somewhat, but it flares to life whenever I relax enough to let my mind wander.

So I've stopped letting it wander. I've spent every waking hour trying to find something to occupy myself. Cleaning out the cupboards, listening to true crime podcasts, running until I can't think of anything except the lack of oxygen in my lungs, and working until I can't see straight.

The hum of conversation in the office break room barely registers until I hear Andy Harper laughing. I force myself to keep flipping through the dense packet of case files spread across my desk.

"... because mitigation banking isn't illegal," Harper's voice carries faintly through the open door. "They offset the development by conserving land elsewhere. It's all above board. You have to admire the creativity."

"It's clever, Andy, I'll give you that," Hughes says. "But what about..."

My stomach sinks. Crestline. I don't need to hear the rest of the conversation to know Andy's found his angle. Mitigation banking. Fuck. It's a loophole just legal enough to justify bulldozing over the protected lands while pointing to some distant, biodiversity-unrelated acreage as their environmental penance.

"Admire?" I mutter under my breath. My voice sounds thin, brittle even to my own ears. The tug in my chest tightens unhappily. The ethics are a nightmare, a false equivalence.

But it's not illegal.

The weight of it is heavy on my shoulders. I push back from my desk and stand, pacing my office. My blouse feels too tight, the conditioned air too thin. Outside the window, sunlight spills across the parking lot and the jagged mountains claw at a perfect, blue sky. I find myself longing for something less sterile, less suffocating.

Hiking. The idea soothes the tightness in my chest. I need to get out of here, away from the paperwork and politics. And Andy Harpers annoying fucking laugh.

Even though I've only been in the office for forty-five minutes, I send a message to Hughes that I'm ill and leaving, and I don't wait for a response. Before anyone can stop me, I'm out the door, zipping back home to dig through the closet that I reorganized yesterday.

After my mom died, I pitched most of my outdoorsy clothing. Now? Most of my shoes are completely impractical—designer heels and loafers that would crumble at the first sign of mud. Next to the boxes of photos and keepsakes, however, are my mother's old hiking boots.

They're battered, faded, and more worn that I remember, but as I pull them out, a faint smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Terra Dawson liked to say that you could tell a measure of a journey by the state of your boots. Her journeys had both been plenty and never enough, the soles of her boots scuffed and patched with care.

Even though they're a half size too small, I lace them up with determination. My leggings and light jacket aren't perfect, but they'll do. Everything is serviceable, and that's enough.

The moment I start leaving the city, the pull in my chest eases. I know there are closer hiking trails to Jackson. There are cute little tourist lookouts and waterfalls, but there's an ache in my chest that wants to drive out past Moran, as close to the Teton Wilderness as I can get. That, and the drive out reminds me so much of my mom that I find myself smiling as I park near the trailhead.

Stepping out of my car, the bright summer air envelops me like an embrace. The dirt trail stretches out ahead of me, framed by pines and golden bursts of sunlight. Insects hum and there's an occasional burst of birdsong. Each step fills me with a deeper and deeper calm.

Even though the incline is steep, my breath comes easier than it has all week. The mountains feel like they're pulling me in, urging me to keep walking, to lose myself in the trees and let the noise of everything else fall away.

It's a pretty remote trail. I pass a couple with their dog, but beyond that, there's no one out here. The air is sharp and green, layered with the earthy sweetness of moss and pine needles. The boots pinch a little, but I feel steady, grounded, like the dirt is anchoring me with each step.

My mom loved trails like this. When she had a bad shift or didn't know how to pay the bills, she'd take us out to the middle of nowhere. She claimed there was a sort of alchemy in wild places, a magic that worked its way into your skin and bones if you let it. I used to think she was exaggerating the effect of exercise-induced endorphins, but now, with the sun filtering through the trees and the sound of wind overhead, I think maybe she was right.

A knot forms in my throat as I glance at her boots on my feet. I should have done this sooner. I should have come out somewhere like this, quiet and untouched. Somewhere where she would have loved. Towards the end, on the days when she was still lucid, she used to talk about her ashes like they were seeds, saying she wanted to be scattered somewhere where she could "finally take root."

Her urn is sitting in my closet.

I hadn't been able to bring myself to decide where. Not yet. What if I decided to leave Wyoming? I couldn't bear to know I was leaving my only person behind.

I pause, the thought wrapping around me. Maybe here. Somewhere like this. The sun is golden and warm, the breeze is light. There's a brush of cheerful yellow flowers poking from the meadow grasses. This is where she meant.

The moment falters as Crestline elbows its way back into my head. They want to roll over this place with the promise of preserving some other, random corner of the state. My blood simmers. What if I spread my mom's ashes here? And Crestline bulldozed over it?

Pressing my finger tips to my temple, I try to knead the tension away. God, I miss my mom. She would have called me out so quickly. She'd tell me to fight like hell and not overthink it. But that's easy advice when you ignore the consequences of your actions until they come crashing down on you.

She was already in debt when the little lump ended up being cancer. She begged me not to take out a private loan to pay for her treatments. Especially toward the end: she she was ready for the next big adventure and all that. But I wasn't ready. I made her keep fighting until I couldn't watch it anymore. And then she was gone. And I had to survive.

I swipe at the tears threatening my eyes. Maybe it's this place, filled with wild things, but I haven't really taken the time to think of my mom since she died. Not like I should have. Maybe everything wouldn't feel so raw if I hadn't swallowed down all the guilt and loss. If I hadn't buried that part of myself where it couldn't feel the hurt and sorrow.

The sound of a bird call pulls me back to the world. It's a high, sharp whistle that cuts through the trees. I shake my head as I start walking again. The trail dips slightly, trees thinning to reveal a narrow creek cutting through the underbrush. I follow the sound of water, letting it pull me forward. The air is still here, and I pause to take it in.

It seems like the perfect place to stop, in the wake of my emotions, the physical exertion. I pull myself to sit on the flat surface of a rock and fish for my water in my bag. The hair prickles on the back of my neck.

That's when I see it.

A shape moves at the edge of my vision, silent and fluid. My breath catches. My heart skips a beat.

There, standing across the creek, is a wolf.

A massive wolf.

Its fur is coarse gray with a sort of silvery undercoat that almost shimmers in the slanted sunlight. Unblinking yellow eyes meet mine, sharp and aware, but it doesn't growl or snarl. It seems to regard me like it's making a decision.

I don't move. I don't even breathe.

The forest is silent and still around us. My pulse pounds in my ears as we watch each other, the wolf and I, two strangers in the quiet.

And then, as suddenly as it appeared, the wolf turns and slips into the trees. Despite its size, it moves so fluidly that I don't even hear the rustle of the underbrush. It's like it was never even here.

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the spot where the wolf disappeared. And then my brain stutters back to life, and I back away on shaky legs. My heart is so high in my throat, I'm surprised I can swallow, but I do it until I feel like there's not that breath-constricting tightness.

This is why you don't hike alone, I tell myself. You'll get eaten by a wolf and no one will ever know.

It hits me.

This is how to beat Crestline.

Gray wolves are endangered. If I could get a photo on my phone, I could give the information to Beau. Or Marcus. Crestline wouldn't be able to use their strategy of mitigation banking if there was a known endangered species on the land they wanted to develop. Or at least they'd have to fight a hell of a lot harder to do it.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm on my feet, phone in my hand, following where I think this wolf has gone. I splash through the creek, off the trail. When the trees grow thick and the sunlight fights to shine through, I slow. My brain catches up with my body.

I've made a huge mistake.

Even though I can't be more than a few minutes minutes off the trail, everything looks the same. I don't hear the sound of the creek. My backpack, my water... everything is sitting on that flat rock.

The quiet presses against me. Every sound feels magnified. The snap of a twig, the rustle of wind through the leaves.

I glance over my shoulder, trying to ignore the rising cadence of my heartbeat. The forest feels different now. The golden light has shifted to something colder, the shadows stretching longer. I tell myself it's just adrenaline. The wolf is long gone.

And yet.

A sound comes from behind me. A low crunch, like a footstep on dry leaves. My breath hitches, and I whirl around, heart leaping.

Nothing.

The forest behind me is empty. But the feeling of being watched tightens in my chest. I tell myself I'm paranoid after listening to true crime podcasts all week. I resist the urge to break into a run.

Another noise. Closer this time. A rustle of underbrush.

I spin again, but this time, I catch a glimpse of something moving through the trees. It's the wolf—or at least I think it is. Its coat looks darker now, nearly black, and it moves with an eerie silence, slipping between the trees like a shadow.

Fear coils tight in my stomach, and I take a step back. Then another. My boots scuff against the trail.

Don't run. Don't run.

Instinct takes over. I pivot and start walking faster, my breath sharp and shallow. Then, I run. The forest blurs around me as I push through the overgrowth, over fallen trees, between and over the rocky earth. Shadows and endless green press in. I can feel the eyes of the wolf, stalking me. Hunting me.

I've lost the trail. The air feels heavier. The trees crowd closer. The sound comes from somewhere to my left, like something circling me.

I hear it again. The same rustle.

I freeze. My heart screams in my chest, echoing in my ears. I take a hesitant step back. A branch cracks underneath my weight. Over my thudding pulse, I hear it.

A low growl.