Logan wakes before the sun rises after a solid eight hours. Three nips of whiskey and the pages of a good book will do that. He had gone to bed with one plan and woken with another. Veronica's idea was madness. He had no intention at all of letting her wander through the forest alone in search of a murderer.

He lathers his face in the smooth white foam and shaves off the beginnings of a beard that adorned his cheeks from the moment he moved here. With each pull of the blade, soft pale skin is exposed. Face in a towel he wipes away the residue and looks in the mirror. It seems strange to see so much skin after so long.

Pulling on jeans, a shirt, his Carhart jacket, he tiptoes downstairs, brews a coffee, and wanders out into the morning, mug in hand. Peeking from the darkness, a rose sunrise stretches and blooms like the crabapple blossoms from his orchard in spring.

Two vehicles pass by him on the driveway with their lights on, heading toward the work shed. Ranch hands barely out of highschool, probably driving their parent's cars. They would file into the barn and await Bill's perfunctory orders for the day.

There was little doubt that when Logan, completely on a whim, purchased one of the largest remaining ranches in Montana, he was out of his depth. It wasn't until he arrived here, a week after settlement, and saw it for the first time, that he really comprehended both the size, and the immense responsibility it entailed. His original intentions had been to subdivide the house and a smaller allotment and sell the bulk of the land. But not long after arriving, he saw not just the escape and the lifestyle change, but the business possibilities that piqued his interest.

In those early days, thrown into a world outside anything he knew. He fought it all. The earth. The animals. The weather. Everything seemed to work against him at every turn. So he turned to books, to relentless study, because surely this couldn't be it? He'd sunk fifty-eight million into this. It was supposed to give him a task, a distraction, purpose. It was supposed to give Piper a better life. This couldn't fail, he wouldn't let it.

Logan made sweeping changes. Changes to feed practices, stock numbers, changes to the norm. Bill agreed to these all with a cocked eyebrow. He realized that if he raised the cattle as grass-fed, he could sell them for double. A year long battle for organic certification paid off, and the price went up again. Six years later and not only is the ranch profitable, it's thriving.

Now that things were running on their own steam, Bill manages the day-to-day operations, Logan the finances. The balance is better that way. He then gets to spend the time being a Dad, doing the daily school drop offs and pickups, and the hours in between he spends with the horses.

He waits until the sun has risen fully, until the dregs of his coffee have long gone cold, until his fingers slowly thaw and he can feel the sun's rays develop their bite before going back inside.

Placing his mug in the sink, Piper trundles down the stairs and flings a full backpack onto the counter.

Her mouth opens wide and she points, "You have a chin!"

Force of habit brings his hand to his face, smoothing fingers across his jaw with a shrug.

"Yeah. I shaved."

She scrutinizes him further, taking in the clean jeans and ironed shirt, but says nothing and fossicks in the refrigerator for breakfast.

Logan thinks he hears a car, leans back and peers out the hallway window and down the long driveway but there is no trail of fine spreading dust that would announce a visitor.

Piper appears with a yogurt tub, a spoon, and perches on the counter.

"What are you doing today?" she asks.

Logan shrugs, "I'm going to work with Panda, try to saddle him."

"And then?"

"The usual," he says the words and she raises her eyebrow. There is nothing usual about a visitor in their midst.

"So, she's coming back, then?" Piper asks, attempting to mask her curiosity.

"Who?" he replies casually, and she laughs.

"Fine, we can play that game," she throws at him before collecting more books from the counter and jamming them into the inch of unclaimed space in her bag. Heaving it onto her back, she stands as tall as she can before him.

"Well, are you taking me to school, Mr. Jawline ?"

"Mock me all you want, dearest child, but this jawline has been in this house with you all this time. You're only shocked because today is the day I have chosen to reveal its magnificence."

"All I'm saying is you're brave, cracking out that thing around these parts," she says, eyebrows raised.

"Might I remind you just days ago you were criticizing me for being too rugged, now I'm too shaved! I simply can't win!"

She ignores him and continues her taunt between spoonfuls of yogurt, "I thought you wanted to avoid Sienna's Mom, not encourage her?"

" Ha-ha," he deadpans, "Okay, we're going to be late. Are you driving, or am I?"

"And look at those clothes! I've never seen that shirt before in my life. Have you got a secret cache of shirts you have lying around to lure the ladies?"

Logan looks down at himself, touching his top button, "Okay, I'm driving," he walks to the door, pulling the key from the hook.

"Or I could stay home today and be here for the catch-up that you're clearly having?" Piper muses.

"Get in the car," he feigns annoyance.

"Trying to get rid of me, hey?"

She laughs as he grabs her backpack on the walk past and she scurries in front racing him at full speed to the driver's side. Logan wins, but he throws her the keys and hops into the passenger seat.


Veronica slept until noon after staying up well past 2am, simultaneously watching the shopping channel and doing as much work as she could to help Keith while she was away. She briefly ventured to the lobby for coffee, the last donut, and today's newspaper before taking the stairs back to her room. Tucked back in bed, she reads the Red Lodge obituaries. She loses herself in the life and death of Kenneth James (76) loving father, keen trout angler, when her phone vibrates.

From Leo D'Amato: You alive?

From Veronica Mars: No

From Leo D'Amato: Check your email.

Reaching for the laptop on her side table and logging in to her emails, she finds nothing in her inbox. Just as she's about to message him, she connects to her VPN and checks her other email. The encrypted one Mac set up for those 'off the book' times where the lack of a paper trail would be fortuitous.

There sits only one email and she opens it. There's no 'dear Veronica' or 'warmest regards' only a blank email with a PDF attachment labeled ' .'

A double click brings her to a scanned hand completed form. The kind used with carbon paper, probably from a generic pad. It's stamped from the California Correctional Institute. A complaint filed by Moyer while incarcerated against Rhys Arnold, one of the victims of the ambush, the officer who survived.

She scans through the details. Moyer cited that Arnold used excessive force trying to separate him from another inmate during an altercation. He claimed Arnold was responsible for a broken tooth and a dislocated jaw, forcing him to move into the hospital bay.

The phone rings from an unknown number.

"You get it?" Leo asks.

"Jesus, give me five minutes to read it, would you?"

"Come on Mars, you eat this shit up for breakfast, speed read it and catch up."

He pauses and lets her run her eyes over the remaining text, which doesn't reveal a lot more.

"So, this would point to some kind of vendetta? Moyer gets out and tries to kill the exact officer that beat him in jail. He just takes out Gutierrez in the crossfire? That can't be a coincidence?" she says.

"I doubt it is."

"Why was Rhys working at the prison? Wasn't he a deputy then?" she asks.

Leo grunts, "Who knows? I know some of my guys moonlight out at the County Jail. It's decent pay for off-contract work on the days they're not rostered here."

"So why wasn't this in the file?" she asks.

"Well now, that would be bad press, wouldn't it? Ruthless cop killer looks so much more appealing in the headlines than killer seeking vendetta for police brutality. The LAPD aren't really into that kind of free publicity, it tends to open up cans of worms they're not prepared to address."

"Have you done it before?" she asks.

"Prison work?"

"Yeah."

"When I was a rookie and barely earning enough to live I did a few shifts. I stopped after I watched an officer get shived by a sharpened chicken bone. The officer ate fried chicken in front of him the week before, eating it real slow, then he threw it in the trash. Well, the inmate fished it out and stabbed him with it a week later."

"Points for creativity, I guess?"

"He lived. But after that I wasn't sure it was worth the seventeen bucks an hour."

"Probably a good call."

"Where did you get this? Mac looked for a connection and couldn't find anything."

"I asked an old buddy who moved to LA if he knew anything. Apparently, Rhys is well known in the force for anger issues. When I went looking, I found a stack of complaints against him for brutality."

"Did he get a suspension?"

"No. It looks as though he was just asked nicely to cease his employment there. You see, his daddy is on the board of corrections. An ex-ATF agent."

"He sounds like a piece of work."

He murmurs in agreement down the line.

"It's just strange that they've left it out of the file. Wouldn't it make sense to have it under their belt? It's a damn good motive and makes for an easier conviction."

"That's why I'm giving it to you. Just in case you need it."

"Thanks."

"Of course, it goes without saying, we never had this conversation."

"Trust me, admitting to any association with you is at the bottom of my to-do list."

Leo laughs. Veronica rests the phone in the crook of her shoulder as she forwards the document to Mac's encrypted email address.

"What does it feel like finally leaving Neptune for the first time in years?" he asks.

"Do you want me to say something trite, like liberating, like a breath of fresh air?"

"If you want."

She makes a noise, almost a chuckle.

"Are you going to tell me where you are?"

"Not a hope in hell."

"Figured," he laughs.

"Thanks for this, Leo."

"No problem."


It's late afternoon when she drives back down the dusty drive, this time Veronica knows the way. She finishes the last slivers of a red ice pop she bought at the gas station, seeking a reprieve from the warm afternoon sun. Placing the stick in the center console, she turns the radio up loud to drown out the thoughts in her head. Maybe the bass of a random rock song would strike away all the butterflies brewing in her belly?

A knock at the same door as yesterday, but no reply. This time the dogs bark from inside and the Keds are gone from their spot. While peering through a window, she hears the turn of wheels on gravel behind her.

A silver pickup rolls up and stops. Logan and who she could only assume is Piper get out. Veronica's eyes open just a bit wider. While she was never friends with Lilly Kane in school, she'd indulged in her famed rom-coms before, and this girl who steps out is uncannily her. Her nose a little longer and eyes reminiscent of her father, the only altered feature. The girl looks at her curiously, skin all alabaster and wrinkle-free.

"Hey," Logan says.

"Hey."

They glance at each other and Piper adds, "Hey."

Logan gives her a look.

"I didn't want to be left out," she says with a breezy smile.

"Piper, Veronica. Veronica, this is my daughter, Piper."

She throws Veronica a wave.

"Come on in," Logan strides up the few stairs and passes her. He looks different today, lighter somehow. Veronica follows him into the house, past the screen door he hid behind yesterday and down the entrance hall.

The expectation on entry to a ranch like this is a barrage of stuffed animal heads, proudly mounted on boards, the glass eyes of the corpses following her around the room, but Veronica sees none. They pass a vast lounge, the walls are distressed wood, the centerpiece a two story high stone fireplace, flanked by floor to ceiling window panes overlooking gardens, the peaks of the Beartooth Mountains in the distance. Above the mantelpiece, a huge photograph of the Neptune Surf Beach's rolling waves she recognizes from a childhood of toes in the sand. Plush cream sofas with endless cushions wrap the room. It's so much. Veronica doesn't know where to look.

Piper tosses her backpack in the hallway with a thud and keeps walking. Veronica follows, craning back for a final glimpse. A series of family photos line the walls of the hall. The Paris skyline, a small girl laughing on a swing, Veronica's eyes pause on a black and white portrait, Lilly Kane sitting with a blonde girl on her lap, smiling together, rubbing noses.

They turn into the kitchen where Logan rests his hip against the counter.

"Can I get you a drink?"

Veronica shakes her head.

"I'd love an OJ," says Piper from behind, motioning to the fridge. One of the fancy types that rich people have with a glass door that displays an entire grocery store of options inside. There are wine bottles from Napa and Spain lined up. Veronica looks at them longingly.

"How about you get your OJ and head up to your room so Veronica and I can talk?"

Piper screws up her nose and grunts, but turns with a whip of blonde hair and disappears out of sight.

When the footsteps have audibly disappeared, Logan and Veronica shuffle awkwardly. Veronica isn't sure what to say, so she pulls the file and the maps from her bag. Opening the largest map, she unfolds it, spreading it across the marble countertop.

Logan places a hand on the paper, forcing her to look at him, a mere arms reach away. She can smell him, earthy and warm, with just the slightest undertones of expensive cologne.

"I'm sorry," he says, "for yesterday. For all those years ago. For accusing you of something and not giving you the opportunity to have your say."

"It's okay," she replies.

"It's really not."

She regards him curiously as he looks down at her map, the one with Mac's lines, with her scrawled notes and arrows pointing to places of note. Veronica's not good at the emotional stuff, at the talking and feelings. Her specialty is more closely aligned to zipping them up tight, pulling up her boots and continuing on. So she falls back to what she knows best, her comfortable place. Finding people, solving the mystery, closing the case. All so much easier than letting yourself feel.

She begins the story, from the start, retrieving photos from the file as she speaks as props. Logan sits patiently and listens without interrupting. She talks about Moyer's criminal background, his prison time and then focuses on the process, the evidence against him, showing him the new information she'd received from Leo that morning. She's blatantly honest about the crime, about her expectation of the possible trial and the reward. There was no use in holding anything back. The more he knew, the better her chances of being allowed in. The only thing she doesn't mention is why she needs the money. Thankfully, he doesn't ask.

Logan spends the most time studying the photo of Juan Gutierrez in his service clothes. Blonde twins, six or seven years old by his side, on their first day of the school year. One of them is missing her two front teeth, the other has a wry smile as they cling to their father, taken only months before his death.

"Juan Gutierrez, from that photo, was dead on scene. They tried to revive him, but it was too late, single bullet entry, just behind the left ear," she says.

Logan places it face down on the tabletop.

"My plan is to come in from the east. It looks like a clearing nearby, I have a telephoto lens, hopefully I can observe from here and get some shots."

"Have you got trekking experience?" he finally speaks.

She taps the table with a finger.

"Well, not exactly."

"Are you aware that the largest grizzly bear population in the United States is in these mountains?"

"I am aware of that."

A creak comes from behind them.

"Seriously, Dad, are you trying to scare her with grizzly bears? There's a murderer living next to our fence line!" Piper is standing on the staircase, shaking her head at him.

"How long have you been there?" Logan asks mildly stunned, but not altogether surprised.

"Since you told me to leave," she answers with a smirk before continuing, "Dad, let her do this. This guy is clearly crazy. What if he comes here and tries to kill us all?"

"Piper, that's not going to happen."

"Well, then you go, someone needs to go and find out if he's definitely there and tell the police."

Excitement tingles down Veronica's spine, threads of hope from an ally on her side in the form of a fifteen-year-old girl.

Logan stands and folds up Veronica's maps, gently placing them in a pile beside her. Veronica and Piper look on silently.

"Veronica, do you mind stepping outside for a moment so Piper and I can have a family discussion about this?"

Veronica makes eye contact with Piper, who smiles back at her with a nod, a silent leave it with me.

"Sure," she says, collecting her things in a jumble and walking to the rear veranda. Logan closes the door quietly and she hears the soft murmur of voices but cannot make out the words.

A hundred yards beyond the house sit large barns with wide black doors. Sand filled yards are dotted around them, surrounded by wooden railings, immaculate gardens, an orchard, a vegetable patch bursting with green fronds. Beyond it all, the mountains, growing out from the undulating rainbow of fields, jagged gray and foreboding in the distance.

Somewhere out there was Moyer. A single grain of sand on a beach, but she was willing to bury her pail deep and sift him out. She knows that finding him won't turn back time and save Gutierrez, but it might just save Keith.


Logan let himself look at Veronica as she leaned over the maps and spoke. Resolute in her commitment to finding Moyer. The way her brow creased as she tilted her head, running an index finger down the line of approach she had planned. There is little doubt in his mind that if he said no, she would go anyway. Declare herself a mountaineer, launching herself at the peaks without an ounce of respect for the pounding of nature's fierceness that would inevitably consume her.

Yesterday she was there, but she was clouded by all the baggage from his past. Today, there is something refreshing about her even though she hadn't once smiled.

Veronica stood on his veranda as he negotiated with Piper. This decision affects them both. Their sparring done, a consensus reached. He opens the door and stands beside Veronica, watching her watch the mountains. She studies them as though they hold the secrets to the universe.

"What if I take you?" he says, suddenly hyper-aware of the sound of his own voice in the afternoon quiet.

Veronica turns her head towards him, the clear blue of her eyes catches him for a moment.

"Really? You don't have to," her answer sounds like a combination of politeness and trepidation. Logan couldn't blame her, he felt it himself. He could ask Bill to do this, to take her and he would without hesitation. But he didn't. He wanted to do it.

"I think I know where the cabin is. Well, I know of a cabin, close to where your maps show it. Someone is there too. There was smoke, a horse tied up when I last saw it."

Her eyes open wide and suddenly the mountains don't seem so daunting anymore, or his offer to join her.

"Have you been there?"

"I made a trip up there a few years back, I remember the way to get there. It's surrounded by trees and brush, well disguised. There would be plenty of vantage points for good photos. It should be quite safe to approach unseen."

He looks to the sky, trying not to look at her.

"Thank you," she breathes, and he can feel her relief. It makes his cheeks crease.

"It will take about two days to get there on horseback with a few solid hours of riding each day. We'll need to camp for a few nights, take a pack horse with gear. I've got it all. You'll have to be prepared to rough it. It's not going to be glamorous."

She nods.

"I understand. What about Piper?"

"She would be more than happy to spend a few days at a friend's house."

"Is she okay with this?"

"She insisted. But I need to be very clear that I don't want a media circus. I can't have that. I need Piper's name, my name left out of everything possible. I don't need the drama."

"I'll do everything I can."

He runs a hand through his hair, across his now smooth cheeks.

"I'm kind of damned if I do, or damned if I don't. The press will have a field day with me either way. Why did I have to buy a place next to a murderer? I want to blink my eyes and wish it all away. "

"Blinking doesn't work. I've tried."

He chuckles, but feels her battle-hardened connection. This isn't the same girl hanging from the branches of his tree anymore. There is a sadness to her now, an impenetrable shell protecting her fragile insides.

"If it's him, if it's confirmed, they will probably need to go through your property to recover him," she speaks with honesty.

"I realize that. But when it goes down, I'm going to need time, a day, a few days to speak with my manager, to be ready for the breaking story. I can't be blindsided again," he hears the pleading in his own voice.

She looks at him, blue eyes connecting with his, "I promise. I won't tell a soul until we've spoken, unless you're happy to proceed."

Logan nods, satisfied.

"You've ridden a horse before, right?" he asks.

"Sure," she offers confidently.

"Sure, like when you were in fifth grade?"

"Sixth grade," she says, holding up her index and middle fingers, "Twice."

"Well, look out! Maybe you could show me a thing or two?"

"Undoubtedly," she replies and smiles for the first time. He gets to see her perfect white teeth, surrounded by those heart shaped lips, tinged red by something that isn't lipstick. He can't help but smile back.

"If I pack up everything we need tomorrow, we can set off early Tuesday morning, if that works for you?"

"Of course."

Veronica takes a deep breath, "Thank you Logan, you have no idea how much this means to me."

They stand together and look out to nature, to the sky, to the future of spending the following days in each other's company.

Already, Logan can't wait until Tuesday.