“Fire’s contained,” Miller muttered, listening to the code. “They got to it before it touched the main cabin structure.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

My father had built that cabin with his own hands during his first transition back from overseas.

It was the only place he ever seemed to breathe easily.

Miller pulled the cruiser into the gravel lot of the sheriff’s substation.

The building was a flat-roofed cinderblock structure painted a dull, municipal tan.

A single blue police light spun slowly on a pole near the entrance, casting rhythmic shadows across the wet gravel.

Mr. Voss was already there.

He stood under the narrow metal awning, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark wool overcoat.

His hair was damp from the mist, clinging to his forehead.

As soon as my boots hit the gravel, the biting mountain air hit me, making my jaw clench.

“Maren,” Voss said, stepping out to meet us. “Thank God you’re safe.”

“Did they get him?” I asked, nodding toward the heavy glass doors of the station.