CHAPTER TWENTY
“Of course,” Ilse muttered. “Of course he’s a park ranger. Why is it always park rangers?”
“It’s... is it?” Sawyer glanced at her from the driver’s side, pulling slowly into a dirt parking lot under the swaying trees.
Ilse shook her head. “An address should be a house. Should have windows. Or a door. It shouldn’t be a hundred thousand b****y acres.”
Sawyer snorted. “What’s got in your bonnet?”
Ilse shook her head, muttering darkly as she pushed open the passenger-side door and stepped into a cloud of slowly dissipating dust kicked up by the rubber wheels.
She waved a hand in front of her face, clearing the air and wincing, blinking against the grains threatening her eyes. Behind her, she watched as two more police vehicles approached, crunching over the gravel entry.
