You were scared.”
“Yes.”
“Someone was following you.”
“Yes.”
“You were convinced they were stalking you.”
“Yes.”
“That they intended you harm.”
“Definitely.”
“How long were they following you?”
“At least half an hour.”
“At what point did you call the police, knowing someone was following you, stalking you, someone you felt wanted to do you harm? When did you call?” He looked down at his keyboard, as if ready to record the time.
She stared at him, feeling the trap closing around her. She hadn’t even seen it coming.
He looked up, feigning surprise. “What time did you call the police during this half hour that you felt your life was in danger?”
Her left hand went reflexively to her cell phone, which McAlister had returned to her and which was now in her jeans pocket. “I didn’t call anyone.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Cell phone service?” she blurted out. “No signal?”
“Are those questions or statements?”
She pursed her lips.
“Are you stating, on the record and on camera, that you tried to call, but couldn’t get a signal?”
Her mouth went dry. She’d made a guess about lack of cell phone service and didn’t have a clue whether or not she could have gotten a call through. But she would bet that he did. He probably knew where every cell tower was in these mountains, where you could get a signal and where you couldn’t. Technically, she hadn’t outright lied yet. She hadn’t specifically said that she’d looked at her phone and saw no bars. But if she told him she’d tried to call, she’d be crossing that line. She’d be lying to a federal officer in the course of an investigation, a crime that alone could send her to prison and destroy her career, if it wasn’t destroyed already.
“No.” Her voice came out as a dry croak. She cleared her throat, then reached for the bottle of water and took a long swallow.
He waited until she’d finished and set the bottle down. “No, you didn’t have a signal, or no, you didn’t attempt to call for help?”
Good grief. He was like a fox after a rabbit.
“I’m a law-enforcement officer,” she said. “I had a gun for protection, if I needed it. Although I was afraid, and worried that someone was after me, I felt confident in my ability to protect myself.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. I did not.”
He smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? You told the truth. Cell coverage is spotty and unreliable throughout the park. That’s why we carry radios. But there’s a cell tower not far from here that provides excellent signal strength. You would have easily gotten a call out if you’d tried.”
She pressed her left hand to her stomach. It felt like a kaleidoscope of butterflies was fluttering around inside her. Or a swarm. Or whatever a gazillion butterflies was called.
His smile faded. “Of course that brings us back to the original question of why you didn’t try to call anyone. Using your own logic, if you were thinking like a law-enforcement officer, using your training, you would know to call for backup. Standard operating procedure when you’re in danger. Why didn’t you call?”
She didn’t answer.
“You truly believed that Mr. Vale was coming after you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then why, when you could have called for backup, did you choose to risk your life and face him all alone?”
Because I wanted to catch the bastard myself.
She pressed her lips together to keep from blurting out those very words.
Silence filled the room. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and let out a deep sigh.
“I was the first one at the office this morning,” he said. “I was the only one here when Zack Towers called to report that he’d shared one of the shelters on the Appalachian Trail last night with another hiker. When you left, you must have put your hand in your pocket to check your gun. He saw the outline of the pistol and called it in. No guns are allowed in any national park unless you’re one of the rangers or investigators working for the National Park Service. That rules you out.”
Her shoulder was beginning to throb from sitting in one position so long. She rubbed it to ease the ache. “There was a hiker with me in the shelter last night. I don’t remember him being named Zack, though. I thought his name was Sunny.”
Duncan nodded. “Sunny’s his trail name. He’s one of our regulars around here, shows up every year around this time, one of the few who likes to hike the AT during the winter. He’s a section hiker.”
“Section hiker?”
“Since you’re out here hiking the Appalachian Trail, I assumed you would have studied up on the lingo.” He let his words hang in the air between them.
Wearying of his game, she said, “I’m only doing day hikes. Normally, I stay in the motel each night and come back in the morning. I don’t know all the terminology because, obviously, I’m not one of those people who can miraculously afford to dedicate nearly a year of their lives to become a two-thousand-miler. That is what they call people who hike from Georgia to Maine in one season, right? NOBOs are the northbound hikers. SOBOs are the southbound ones?”
He nodded. “Sounds like you studied a little bit about the AT before coming here. I wonder why you’d do that? Maybe because you wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be a lot of hiker traffic around to see whatever it is that you’re actually doing here?”
“Or maybe I learned way more than I ever wanted to know about this cursed place when I was here on a stupid senior trip back in high school,” she snapped.
His look of surprise had her closing her own eyes and cursing to herself. She was getting too stirred up, too frustrated. And as a result, she’d just told him something way too close to her true purpose in being here.
The sound of him typing had her opening her eyes.
He typed a moment longer, then looked at her over the top of the screen. “What’s your natural hair color?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Your eyebrows are dark. You’re a brunette, right?”
“And this matters why?”
He turned the laptop around so she could see the screen. There, in living color, smiling and looking carefree, was her sister in the picture her father had given to the police when Becca went missing. It was the picture from the flyer they’d circulated by the hundreds in Gatlinburg after she disappeared. It was the same picture he’d put on the website he’d created to try to generate leads that would help him find his daughter. But they never did.
Becca.
Her throat tight, she whispered, “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
Something flashed in his eyes. Sorrow? Regret? Empathy? Whatever it was, it didn’t bother him enough to close the laptop, or minimize the picture of her sister. Instead, his gaze searched hers.
“What I want is what I’ve wanted all along—the truth. I want you to admit that you came here