"Because somebody would," I comment.
“Of course, they would,” Sam says. “It's what people do. Curiosity, arrogance. There's something about places where something terrible happens that makes people want to go and look at them. That and just the basic draw of being told they're not allowed to be somewhere. There's a sense of entitlement that makes people want to prove they're not being controlled. If they're told they can't go somewhere, it's the first thing they're going to do. So, Fitzgerald made sure that wouldn't happen. There are surveillance cameras and some security stationed at the camp stores throughout the park, but nothing like that around the campgrounds. That's pretty much the same for all national parks. People don't want to feel as if they're being watched when they're camping. And the thought of spending that much money for ongoing surveillance of an abandoned campground just wasn't an expense the park rangers were willing to take on.”
“But it's been thirteen years and nothing has happened?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “The surveillance went on for the next few years, but it's probably been a decade since there was anything ongoing there. It's not unheard of for off-duty officers to volunteer to set up surveillance around that area near the anniversary, and there are some highly experienced campers and hikers that make their rounds through it as a way to pay tribute to the victims too. They love the parks and really don't appreciate anybody making them unsafe for people wanting to visit.”
“Have there ever been any leads or anything?” I ask. “It seems with that many people going missing, the situation would have been better publicized. There would have been bigger coverage. They would have been able to find something.”
“It was covered,” Sam says. “But without anything concrete, there wasn't anything to go on to find who did it. The park didn't want to make too big of a deal out of everything, because they didn't want to attract more curious visitors to the area. And now after all these years, there's still nothing.”
“Nothing but the ghosts,” I say.
“Nothing but the ghosts,” Sam says.
Chapter Seven
One hand props my head up with my fingers buried in my hair, while the other spins my phone around on top of my desk. I've been staring at the papers spread out in front of me for the last couple of hours. Actually, it might have been a whole lot longer than that. I don't really know. I lost track of time somewhere between pulling out all my old case files and my father’s calling me.
I hadn't spoken to him in almost three weeks. That got my worry cranking up, even though I tried to tell myself not to automatically go to the bad place when I didn't hear from him. It's hard not to. Even after so many years, my memories of when he simply disappeared out of my life are still fresh.
I can still, without even having to strain, remember what it was like to come home and have him not there. Everything seemed exactly as it had been. I woke up that morning thinking it was a completely normal day. I went about my tasks and did everything I needed to do. But by the time I went to bed that night, the realization was already tugging at the base of my brain and tightening around my throat. Nothing was ever going to be the same again.
He's back now. He's in my life again and has been for a couple of years. But that doesn't take away the sharp edge of the memories. It doesn't mean that having him go deep undercover as he tries to dig out the secrets of the Order of Prometheus and track down the murderous chapter from Harlan has been far harder on me than I really want to admit.
The truth is, it isn't about me. His decision is completely about me since I'm the one who asked him to go undercover and help me with my investigation, but the investigation itself isn't about me. It's about the people who suffered at the hands of the men who wanted to prove their importance and create disturbing blood ties with each other. It's about Andrew Eagan and Millie Haynes and Lakyn Monroe. It's about Xavier and Lilith Duprey and the bones scattered across the cornfield. I don't get to make it about myself.
But I still worry. I understand why he can't call me all the time. I understand why I went the first few months without hearing a single word from him. He has to do it to protect himself, to protect me, to protect the entire operation. And it still leaves me terrified that I might have heard the last words I will ever hear in his voice. And that this time I won't get another chance. That I'll never know what happened to him.
At least for tonight, I know he's doing all right.
The same can't be said for the cases I buried myself in. The words are starting to blur together, and I know I'm confusing details. That's a very bad thing when it comes to trying to unravel as many knots and tangles as I have in these files. But I can't walk away from them.
"What are you still doing up?" Sam asks, coming into the office.
I glance over my shoulder at him and take just a second to appreciate how gorgeous he is in nothing but his boxer briefs. Sometimes when I look at him, I feel like an investor who put a little bit into a startup company, then came back to rake in the profits when it grew into a
