THE WILDER HUNT

CHAPTER TWO

The smell hit first—sharp copper mixed with industrial bleach and the faint, sour staleness of a hotel room sealed way too long. Harper Lane paused in the doorway of Room 814, one nitrile glove half-snapped onto her wrist, the other dangling. Her hair was already tied back in a tight knot, but a loose strand stuck to her damp forehead. She held her breath like stepping fully inside might commit her to something irreversible.

She’d processed worse scenes: gang hits in alleyways, domestic calls that ended in kitchen knives, overdoses where the bodies had started to bloat. She knew how to wall off the part of herself that still felt anything. But Jonah Wilder lying face-up on the cheap beige carpet wasn’t a regular scene. Something about the way his body rested—arms slightly spread, one hand inches from the nightstand, fingers curled as if he’d been reaching for something just out of grasp—made the fine hairs on her forearms stand up.

She knelt before she remembered protocol. Gloved fingers hovered over his chest, not quite touching. No rise. No fall. The stillness was absolute.

“Harper,” came a voice behind her, roughened by fatigue and something darker. “You can’t be in here alone.”

Detective Mara Holland stepped across the threshold, shutting the door with the heel of her boot. Her face looked tight enough to c***k—jaw set, eyes red-rimmed, the lines around her mouth deeper than they’d been yesterday.

“I was assigned the call,” Harper said, not turning. “They told me to start the logs.”

“Start them outside,” Mara snapped. Then softer, almost apologetic: “Sorry. It’s been a morning from hell.”

Harper nodded once. Her eyes stayed on Jonah. The room hummed with unnatural quiet—no air-conditioning rattle, no distant hallway chatter, no traffic noise leaking through the sealed window. Just the faint drip of the bathroom faucet and the wet rasp of her own breathing.

She lowered herself carefully, scanning the carpet inch by inch. A flick of white paper peeked from under the nightstand leg—so small most techs would’ve missed it in the first sweep. She didn’t.

“There,” she murmured. “Cover me.”

Mara crouched opposite her, blocking the doorway view. Harper slid the paper free with gentle, practiced movements—tweezers first, then gloved fingers. It was almost torn in half, edges jagged like someone had yanked it in panic. Handwriting frantic, black ink smudged in places.

One word.

RUN

Mara exhaled like she’d been punched in the diaphragm. “He bloody knew.”

“Or someone else did,” Harper said quietly. “Either way, he didn’t get the chance to finish running.”

Footsteps pounded down the hall—hard, urgent. Detective Albert Ruiz burst into the room, not even pretending to have gloves on yet. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled unevenly, a fresh coffee stain on the cuff.

“Hotel security pulled camera footage,” he said, breath short. “Someone left this floor at 12:11 p.m. Hood up. Face down. Five minutes after we walked out of Jonah’s apartment.”

Harper felt a cold tug deep in her ribs. Fifty-three minutes ago Jonah Wilder had been alive. Nervous, hiding something, but breathing. Talking. Now the word RUN lay beside him like a final, unfinished sentence.

Mara’s voice came out rough. “We talked to him less than an hour ago.”

Harper folded the note into an evidence pouch with slow, deliberate care. The plastic crinkled loudly in the quiet room. “Someone didn’t want him talking again.”

Ruiz rubbed a hand across his face. “Security says the cameras on this floor glitched for exactly seven minutes. Right around time of death. Clean cut. Professional.”

Harper sealed the pouch. “So we’re dealing with someone who knows how hotels work. Knows how cameras are wired. Knows how long it takes to strangle a grown man without leaving defensive marks.”

Mara stared at Jonah’s body. “He didn’t fight.”

“No,” Harper agreed. “He didn’t.”

They all looked at the way Jonah’s hand rested—fingers curled, palm up, like he’d been offering something instead of defending himself.

Ruiz’s voice dropped. “He knew the killer.”

Harper nodded once. “Or trusted them enough not to run until it was too late.”

The room went quiet again.

Only the faucet dripped.

---

Seventy miles west, Leah Wilder sat on her living-room floor with her knees pulled tight into her chest. Her hands shook so violently the sketchbook trembled in her lap. She’d found it behind the couch of all places—Jonah’s old moleskin, edges frayed, spine cracked from years of being carried in back pockets. She wished she could forget what she saw inside.

She wished she’d never opened it.

A single page he’d never shown her.

Three names.

The three of them.

Each underlined twice.

Jonah

Elias

Leah

Beside them, symbols drawn in the same frantic black ink.

A check mark next to Jonah’s name.

A warning sign—sharp triangle, exclamation point—next to Elias.

A hard, deliberate X next to hers.

✔ Jonah trusted her.

⚠ He feared Elias.

✖ He suspected her.

Her stomach twisted so hard she had to grip the coffee table edge to keep from vomiting. Jonah—her sweet, wandering, endlessly sketching cousin—had thought she was hiding something. Thought she knew something she hadn’t told him.

The worst part?

He wasn’t wrong.

Her phone buzzed on the floor beside her—sharp, insistent.

Unknown number:

They’re dead because of you.

Leah’s breath stuttered. She reread it twice, hoping the words might rearrange into something else. Something sane.

Another message flashed.

You knew.

You let it happen.

You’re next.

Her vision blurred. She wiped at her eyes but found no tears—just heat and panic rising like bile.

She typed back with trembling fingers:

Who is this?

The reply came instantly.

You already know.

A tear finally escaped, sliding hot down her cheek. She looked again at the sketchbook. Jonah’s handwriting looped across the page in tight, anxious curls. The X next to her name felt like a fresh wound carved into her chest.

“Jonah,” she whispered. “I didn’t… I never meant…”

The doorbell rang.

Leah froze.

One chime.

Two.

Three—slow, patient, almost polite.

Elias never rang the doorbell. He used his own key. Or he knocked once—hard, authoritative, like every door was already his.

She stayed still. Heart slamming against her ribs.

Her phone buzzed again.

Do not open the door.

Her pulse lurched into her throat.

The doorbell rang louder this time. Insistent.

Then a voice—male, familiar, controlled.

“Leah?”

It sounded like Elias.

Her stomach dropped.

“Let me in,” the voice said. “We need to talk.”

Elias. The cadence, the calm authority. It had to be Elias.

But her instincts screamed otherwise.

She crawled toward the coffee table, fingers closing around the slim metal letter opener she kept for mail. Barely a weapon. Enough to feel less helpless.

Her phone vibrated again.

That’s not him.

She stared at the screen, throat so tight she could barely swallow.

The doorknob turned. Slowly. Testing. Checking the lock.

Elias never tested locks. He knew they were secure. He trusted her.

“Leah,” the voice repeated, thinner this time, cracking at the edges. Elias had never cracked. Not once in all the years she’d known him.

Something primal ignited in her chest.

Run.

She scrambled to her feet, stumbling toward the back hallway as the front door clicked—once, twice—then began to open with a soft, deliberate scrape.

Whoever stood there inhaled slowly, deeply, as if smelling for her in the air.

“Leah…” the voice said again, almost tender.

Not Elias.

Not even close.

Leah bolted into the bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock with shaking hands. The metal felt cold and small under her fingers. She backed away until her calves hit the bed.

Her phone buzzed one more time.

Hide.

Don’t make a sound.

Footsteps crossed her living room.

Slow.

Confident.

Patient.

Each one deliberate. Each one closer.

Leah slid under the bed, pressing herself against the dusty carpet, letter opener clutched so tight her knuckles ached. Dust tickled her nose. She held her breath.

The bedroom doorknob turned.

The door eased open with a faint creak.

A pair of black boots stepped into view—polished, deliberate.

The man stopped.

Inhaled again.

“Leah,” he said softly. “I know you’re here.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

He took one step closer.

Then another.

And Leah realized with crushing certainty: Whoever had entered her home wasn’t here to talk.

They were here to finish what started with Jonah.