My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

30. Clay

THIRTY

Clay

The road stretched ahead, the afternoon sun climbing higher as I steered my truck back to the cabin. I couldn't believe what had happened with Sierra…with my dad.

I needed to call Grace.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for her to pick up. I needed to talk to her. My old man had caught me off guard today, his gruff exterior cracking just enough to let a sliver of hope wedge between us.

“Come on, Grace, pick up,” I muttered under my breath.

The phone continued to ring, unanswered. Her absence from the other end of the line gnawed at me. Something about today made me want to share it all with her—the kind of day that reminded me why I couldn't quite shake the memory of Grace Gibson, no matter how hard I tried to banish her from my thoughts.

“Grace, it's Clay. We need to talk. Call me back.”

My words came out clipped, frustration seeping through.

Because this was off.

I hit redial, and the phone rang until her voicemail greeted me again. I let out a sigh and leaned back in my seat.

“Grace, it's me,” I said after the tone. “Just wanted to chat about some stuff. Call me when you can.”

I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and turned the truck onto the next bend. Out here, with the dense forest flanking either side of the road, the silence felt heavier than usual.

She's probably outside, I thought. Sitting with Bear, having coffee, waiting on the front porch. I knew I was being clingy, but anxiety gnawed at me.

I picked up the phone and typed a message with one hand, steering with the other.

Nothing urgent. Just wanted to talk. Let me know when you're free .

I waited, but the screen stayed dark. No immediate reply came, which was odd for Grace. She lived by her phone, always ready to catch the next big scoop.

But maybe today was different. Maybe today she'd taken a break from all that.

Minutes passed, and the silence from my phone started feeling personal. I glanced at it again, willing it to light up with her response. It remained stubbornly inactive.

“Come on, Grace,” I muttered to myself. “Where are you?”

Unease knotted in my stomach. I tried to dismiss it. She's busy, right? I told myself. But that nagging sensation wouldn't leave. My hand reached for the phone as if on its own accord, and I dialed her number once more. Three rings, then voicemail.

“Hey, Grace, it's Clay again. Everything okay there?” I spoke clearly, trying not to let concern seep into my voice. “Hit me back when you get this.”

I hung up the phone, frustration creeping in. This was call number three to Grace with no answer. She always had her phone on hand, said it was a reflex from her reporting days.

The silence didn't sit right with me, and I couldn't shake off the unease.

The tires of my truck hummed along the pavement, a steady rhythm that did nothing to soothe the growing tension in my shoulders. Could her phone battery have died? It wasn't like her to be caught off guard, but maybe she’d lost track of time.

Or could something else have taken her attention?

Something deadly.

I took the curve a little too fast into the gravel driveway to my place, sending up a spray of slush. The cabin came into view a moment later…but Grace’s truck was gone.

“Come on, think,” I said aloud, attempting to stifle the fear that crept into my voice. “There could be a dozen reasons she's not here.”

I swung the door open and stepped out onto the gravel, my boots crunching underfoot. The cabin loomed ahead. I scanned the property, my eyes searching for any sign of her—a piece of clothing, blood. The cops were supposed to be around, but I assumed the worst. I couldn’t reach her, her truck was gone.

Dangerous people were after her…and even my short absence could have gotten her killed.

“Grace!” I called, my voice echoing off the trees. No answer came back, only the rustling leaves whispering secrets I couldn't decipher.

I jogged up to the front door, my hand unsteady as I pushed it open. The hinges creaked, breaking the silence with a sound that seemed too loud in my ears. I knew then, with a certainty that sank like lead in my stomach, that something was terribly wrong.

The cabin door groaned as it swung open. I stepped in, the quiet pressing in around me. Bear let out a soft whine from somewhere to my left. I turned to see him pacing by the kitchen table, his movements jittery and anxious. My stomach twisted at the sight.

“Hey, Bear, where's Grace?” I asked, though I knew the dog couldn't answer. His dark eyes met mine, filled with a distress that mirrored my own. He continued to pace, and I noticed Grace's laptop sitting open on the table. I glanced at the screen, but it was the piece of paper next to the keyboard that snared my attention.

A note.

A goodbye , my paranoia told me.

I picked up the note, and it hit me like a punch to the gut. Grace's words blurred for a second as I took them in. An address…a goodbye if I didn’t get there in time. The letter was a farewell, a grim acceptance of danger from which she might not return.

She had to do this alone, that much was clear.

But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try to stop it.

“Damn it, Grace,” I muttered, clenching the note until my knuckles turned white.

Grace wasn't going to slip away from me. Not like this.

I burst back out the door, the screen slamming shut behind me with a clatter that echoed in the empty space where Grace's truck should have been. My boots pounded on the wooden steps as I descended them two at a time, my heart pounding just as hard within my chest.

I yanked open the door of my truck, the metal handle cold against my palm. I threw myself inside, jammed the key into the ignition, and started the engine. It roared to life, then I slammed the truck into gear, gravel and slush spitting out from under the tires as I floored the accelerator, tearing out of the driveway.

“Grace, hang on,” I whispered to the empty air.

I wasn't about to let her face whatever hell awaited at that address without backup.

Not without a fight.