Page 46 of Tracking Wolfe

And a third time.

I changed the zoom on my screen so I could zero in on the screenshots from Fletcher Coe’s Instagram posts, which were flashed up as “evidence.”

By the end of my fifth viewing, my gut was roiling.

Fact: the entire Marian family had been in Hawaii early last summer for Tommy’s aborted wedding.

Also fact: the Marians had friends and family in Aster Valley, and had definitely been there in recent years.

Which didn’t mean anything, necessarily. It could all be a coincidence.

But those same instincts I’d come to rely on in my work, the ones that had enabled me to track Wolfe to Colorado, were screaming at me that it wasn’t.

I quickly clicked through the #WhoIsFletcherCoe tag, where post after post speculated about the identity of the famous songwriter.

It wasn’t surprising that Fletcher Coe had so much interest. The man was fucking brilliant. He’d been around for several years, but I’d been a little late to the game, only clueing in after Jude’s casual mention of the guy last summer. Since then, “Not Mine” had become my own secret lament.

A random songwriter on the internet had somehow reached inside me and pulled out the core contradiction in my life. The man I wanted, the man I couldn’t stop thinking about, wasn’t mine and couldn’t be. Fletcher had managed to put those feelings into words and melody.

And now⁠—

Now I was faced with the idea that Fletcher was⁠—

I clicked on a post from a month ago. I hadn’t paid attention to the video while it played the other night, since I’d been drifting off to sleep, but I watched closely now. And there, at the edge of the man’s wrists and behind the guitar on his headless chest, was a recognizable red.

SERA red.

The kind used in our instructors’ hoodies.

Could it have been any other red hoodie? Maybe. Sure. But I had a stack of hoodies in that distinctive color at home and two with me right now on this trip.

Thankfully, the SERA logo wasn’t visible in the frame, which was the only thing keeping this post from being a massive clue that the mysterious Fletcher Coe was⁠—

Fuck. I still couldn’t bring myself to think the words.

Just before I clicked away to look for more evidence, the sound from the video caught up to me. The melody was lovely, and Fletcher Coe’s smooth voice rolled out deep and familiar through my earbuds as the lyrics scrolled across the video post.

’Cause the pinks and oranges are calling me

Like a fire that doesn’t need a name,

And the freedom tastes like dust and honey

On the edge where I belong.

I’m letting go of who I’ve been,

Like a stone I don’t have to carry⁠—

But even in all this open,

I’m still chasing something I can’t hold.

At the very end, the video flashed away from his hands on the guitar to a jaw-dropping photo of the Grand Canyon at sunset or sunrise.

The Grand Canyon.

The SERA hoodie.