The laptop glows in the dim kitchen, the window giving nothing back. I click Join anyway. By the time we reach the trail, I already know I don’t belong. I notice the tracks before anyone else. Large. Deep. Clean. Not crossing. Running alongside.
“How do you stay so calm?” “Stop expecting rescue. Reinforce the spine. Guard the soft spots.” “Lonely costs less than therapy.”
An affair. A gun. One question that demands yes or no. But the wrong answer isn’t the only danger in the room.
The road turned mean under an early September snowstorm. Icy switchbacks knifed along a drop so steep the birch clung to the slope out of stubbornness. The Glenn Highway vanished behind our truck in sheets of white as we climbed toward Chickaloon, mountains folding inward, dark and close. Wind pressed against the truck like it wanted inside.
Content Note: This story contains a brief reference to suicide. Please take care while reading. The ringing phone dragged me out of a dream. I rolled toward the noise and groped for the phone. Sleet pecked at the windowpanes like fingernails. A distorted voice slid into my ear. Walk away from the case. Accidents happen. I jolted upright. A sudden weight landed on the bed. My collie Zeke, warm breath stirring my chin. His dark eyes met mine, they way…
Maggie carried herself like the model professional—pressed blazer, polished nod, expression set to neutral. Her pen sketched blood. On the legal pad half hidden by her keyboard tray, she wrote in small script, Sixteen Ways to Kill Your Managers. Number one: staple gun to jugular. Efficient. No mess. No evidence trail.Number two: office chair ejector seat, fifth-floor window. Add parachute? Optional. Ken’s voice cut across the room, booming through his story. Maggie angled her ear, catching the punchline just in…
My dogs turn in smug unison when the door clicks shut on the guy they can’t stand. The collie lifts his chin like he just won a courtroom case; the golden narrows her eyes with the glow of someone who escaped a family Zoom call. “Don’t gloat.” I nudge the collie’s rump with my foot, and he absorbs the tap like a weighted pillow with opinions. A chuckle drifts from the kitchen, warm as the overhead light pooling against…
Three months after Kara’s last text—I found the answer—I parked at the Summit Creek trailhead. I’d torn through her left-behinds for a clue—found only a Post-it written on the run: Summit > South Spur > Ridge. I killed the engine. The trail, a half-swallowed scar, pulled me in. Devil’s club towered sky-high. Bear scat gleamed. A single bird called out—one long, metallic whistle that pierced the trees and died. I kept moving—not because I believed Kara had found the answer,…
I didn’t get the house. Not the Lexus, the lake lot, the gilded dental practice or the damn espresso machine I bought him the year he started molar sculpting. I got a one-room cabin. Ninety miles south of Anchorage. No plumbing. A stove that belches smoke. A roof that drips snowmelt onto my bed. Daniel handed it over like a favor. Like a pat on the head for staying quiet. Like I wouldn’t notice he kept everything else. He tossed…
