I drove for another mile, navigating deep ruts and exposed boulders.

Then, the trees cleared into a small meadow.

My father’s cabin sat at the edge of the clearing, backed by a steep rock wall.

The dark logs looked dry, but the metal roof was still intact.

Beside the porch, a black luxury sedan was parked, its paint coated in a layer of yellow dust.

Dorian’s car.

I parked the SUV fifty feet away and turned off the ignition.

The silence of the forest rushed in to fill the quiet.

I sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, checking my watch.

The forty-eight hours were ticking down.

I opened the car door and stepped out onto the gravel.

The air was cold enough that my breath fogged slightly.

I walked toward the cabin, my boots crunching on the dry pine needles.

As I reached the wooden steps of the porch, the front door creaked open.

My mother stood in the doorway, wearing a heavy wool sweater and holding a ceramic mug.

She looked older than I remembered, her eyes wide with surprise.