Format: 337 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: February 17, 2026
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery, Suspense
Detective Casey Duncan and her husband, Sheriff Eric Dalton, are entering a new chapter of life as parents to their six-month-old baby. Their family is hidden away in the sanctuary town of Haven's Rock where they can live safe and private lives. But when they encounter hikers too close to the borders of Haven's Rock, they realize they're in danger of being exposed.
When they find one of the hikers dead the next day, they realize that their paranoia was justified, but they're no closer to finding out who these people were and what they were doing in the vicinity of Haven's Rock. Only by tracing the hikers' movements, as well as examining the recent behavior of their closest neighbors, the workers of a secretive mining camp, will they be able to figure out where the threat is coming from and shut it down. Otherwise, the lives of everyone in Haven's Rock--and their safe, secure new existence--are at risk.
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When they find one of the hikers dead the next day, they realize that their paranoia was justified, but they're no closer to finding out who these people were and what they were doing in the vicinity of Haven's Rock. Only by tracing the hikers' movements, as well as examining the recent behavior of their closest neighbors, the workers of a secretive mining camp, will they be able to figure out where the threat is coming from and shut it down. Otherwise, the lives of everyone in Haven's Rock--and their safe, secure new existence--are at risk.
First Sign of Danger is the Fourth installment in author Kelley Armstrong's Haven's Rock series. The story picks up with Detective Casey Duncan and her husband, Sheriff Eric Dalton, now navigating life as new parents to their six-month-old baby, Rory. Haven's Rock remains the off-the-grid sanctuary it has always been—a hidden Yukon settlement designed for people who need to disappear and start over, where trust is hard-won, and secrecy is paramount.
The couple's family outing takes a tense turn when they encounter suspicious hikers venturing too close to the town's carefully concealed borders. Paranoia sets in quickly: exposure could destroy everything the residents have built. The discovery of one hiker's body the next day—clearly a victim of murder—confirms their worst fears. What begins as a potential security breach spirals into a knotty investigation involving conspiracy, possible espionage, betrayal, high-stakes chases through rugged terrain, and unsettling connections to a secretive nearby mining operation.
Casey and Eric must trace the hikers' movements, scrutinize their enigmatic neighbors, and protect their community while balancing the demands of parenthood in such an unforgiving environment. Casey, Eric, and crew are pushed to investigate what the mining camp is really doing, who is behind the operation, and how many people have died who have gotten too close to unraveling the facts behind the operation.
Casey remains a compelling protagonist—smart, tough, and deeply protective—while her evolving dynamic with Eric feels authentic and layered, especially as they juggle sheriff duties with newborn life. The addition of the baby adds emotional weight without ever feeling forced; it grounds the high-stakes thriller elements in real human vulnerability. The supporting cast of Haven's Rock residents continues to shine, with quirks and backstories that make the community feel lived-in and believable.
The mystery itself is intricate and satisfying. It weaves personal stakes with broader intrigue (murder, conspiracy, and hints of something larger), culminating in a resolution that ties up the central puzzle while advancing the series arc to what appears to be the ending of the series, and a final conflict with the people behind the former Rockton who seem eager to either destroy Haven's Rock, or lure Eric back under their thumbs.
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CHAPTER ONE
Our daughter is six months old, and our dog is still clearly convinced that we have no idea what we’re doing and, without her intervention, our child will crawl into the woods and be devoured by wolves. We’d been hiking for an hour, with Rory happily bouncing along in the carrier on Dalton’s back. I’d walked behind him, so I can ensure she’s okay … and make faces at her.
We’ve stopped in a clearing, taken her out, and put her on the ground, and Storm is in full herding mode. Despite the fact that Newfoundlands are not herding dogs. Despite the fact that Rory is crawling around gurgling gleefully. Also despite the fact that we walk this route once a week and put Rory down in the exact same spot every time.
When Storm’s anxious growls turn to full-throated Newfie woofs, I cover my ears and shout to be heard over the noise. “One of these days, we are leaving you behind, dog.”
She keeps barking. We keep wincing. And Rory grins up at her massive black-haired mop of a big sister.
I order Storm to lie down, which makes barking impossible, so she resorts to loud grumbling as she watches Rory, ready for … I don’t know, our baby to leap to her feet and make a run for it?
I drop to the ground beside Rory, which seems to calm Storm. Dalton roots around in my pack and pulls out the water canteen, granola bars, and one digestive cookie for our red-cheeked teething baby.
“See, Casey?” he says as he hands me the canteen. “She just needed a distraction from her teeth. Long walks always work. Now, the trick is to tire her out so she falls asleep on the way back and then we can ease her into her crib and really enjoy our day off.”
I stretch out in the long grass. “I’m enjoying this.”
His brows rise. “And that’s all you want for a very rare shared day off when the baby is actually sleeping?”
I smile. “No, I’ll take whatever you’re offering. I just mean that I like this. And not just because she’s finally quiet.”
“Rory? Or Storm?”
“Both.”
I lay my head on Storm’s flank as I watch our daughter grabbing at a grass strand. My miracle baby. A miracle in the sense that I didn’t think I’d ever be able to have children. And a miracle because I never thought I’d find someone I wanted to have them with.
Dalton and I wouldn’t have dared try for a child until the town was fully functional, but nature intervened and gave us Rory. As for Haven’s Rock, it’s been chugging along uneventfully for six months, and uneventful is exactly how we like it. The town continues to fill with people seeking refuge, and we’re growing confident in our ability to provide that refuge.
It’s early September now. In southern Canada, it’d still be summer, with fall on the horizon. Up here, it’s been autumn for a few weeks, the world turning golden and quiet as we begin the descent into another long winter.
Dalton finishes his bar, stretches out in front of Rory, and prods things for her to explore—twigs, rocks, a bug. He grew up in the wilderness and has never left, and I smile as I watch him engaging our daughter in her environment. Storm might not like seeing Rory crawling about on the ground, but this is the life she will lead, and she’s already happiest here, in the sunshine watching a bug crawl up a twig.
When Storm leaps up, unceremoniously dumping me to the ground, I barely have time to recover before she resumes barking.
“Really?” I say. “What’s wrong now? Rory hasn’t moved from…”
I trail off as I realize Storm is looking into the forest. Of course, my husband has already realized this and is on his feet, scanning the trees, fingers resting on the butt of his gun.
Yes, Dalton carries a sidearm. So do I. In Rockton, he was the sheriff and I was his detective, and we continue those roles in Haven’s Rock, mostly because we’ve learned it makes people feel safe, and when the majority of our residents are victims, feeling safe is critical.
We no longer wear the guns around town—that was a Wild West affectation the Rockton council insisted on. But we usually wear them when we leave Haven’s Rock. Dalton doesn’t take his out, though. Just rests his fingers there. We’re not readying our weapons when the “danger” is almost certainly a fox or moose.
Newfoundlands aren’t known to be vocal, and Storm never was … until we brought a baby into the house. Last week, she went into a barking frenzy at a vole that snuck into our chalet. Apparently, it wasn’t only wolves that could devour our child.
As she barks, I lay my hand on her head, telling her we’ve got this. It’s not until I scoop up Rory that Storm quiets. She moves beside Dalton, who’s listening intently. Something’s out there. Big enough that he can hear it moving.
Dalton surveys the clearing. He’s trying to decide whether it’s safe to leave me here while he investigates. If Storm’s barks didn’t send the animal fleeing, it’s not small, and at this time of year predators may actually come closer when they hear her. Snow on the mountaintops warns that winter is coming. Sick or elderly predators can become desperate. That goes double for bears, looking to store up fat to get them through hibernation. Stories of unavoidable grizzly attacks often happen at this time of year, and that’s why I’m not only carrying my sidearm—I also have a rifle on my back. We have a baby now. We are ridiculously careful.
I motion for Dalton to take the rifle and investigate. Then I hold Rory in one arm as I tug the bear spray from my pack and put it in my jacket pocket. Usually, if I saw a bear I’d go for the spray first. With Rory, I’ll make that judgment call when the time comes. Bear spray is very effective under normal circumstances, but a desperate bear does not behave normally.
It’s only after Storm and Dalton are gone that I realize I have too much to juggle here—baby, bear spray, gun.
Storm may have a point. As careful as we are, we’re still new parents.
I look around and then back against a thick pine.
Rory fusses. She was happily on the ground, playing with Daddy, and now Mom is awkwardly holding her in one arm, and Dad and Storm are gone, and it’s boring. Really boring. Which reminds her that her mouth hurts where her first tooth is breaking through.
I bounce her and put my other arm around her, while keeping it ready to grab my gun or spray. I whisper to her under my breath, singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” which is one of three nursery songs I know, and I’m probably getting the words wrong, but she’s six months old—it doesn’t matter. And it really doesn’t matter right now, as I try to keep her quiet—
Rory roars. She came into the world that way, and she’s never stopped. It’s even the joking version of how she got her name. I kiss her cheeks and her forehead and she roars in rage and the remembered pain of her teething, her round face going beet red up to the roots of her wild black hair.
“Shh, shh, shh,” I say as I bounce her faster.
Crashing sounds in the bushes. A dark shape appears maybe ten feet beyond the clearing.
My hand drops to my gun. Screw the spray. I have a baby, and I am not taking chances—
“Hey!” Dalton shouts. “Back the fuck up! Now!”
It is a testament to my fear that, for a moment, I think he might actually be talking to me.
When a human voice answers, I stop, hand on my gun. It sounds like a woman. It’s not Lilith, the wilderness photographer who lives out here. There’s also a mining camp, but there aren’t any women among the miners or staff.
Could it be one of our residents? We have thirty-three women in town now, and unless I know them well, I’m not going to recognize their voice when they’re freaking out … which they would be if Dalton caught them on a secret hike.
Rory has stopped, too, as she turns toward the voice. Something new. Something interesting. I move in that direction slowly, listening until I can make out words.
“—husband was trying to see where we are, and he slipped and fell. His ankle’s twisted. I heard the dog barking and came running. Then I heard a baby. Is there a town here? A settlement?”
I keep walking toward the voices as Dalton says no, there isn’t a town for a hundred kilometers or more. When I step out onto the path, he glowers my way, but I shake my head. It’s not as if she didn’t hear the baby.
I also see the reason for her panic. Dalton has his gun out. His finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger, but all she sees is a man with a gun and a very large dog. When she spots me, she makes a noise almost like a yelp of relief and hurries in my direction.
“Stop, please,” I say calmly. “I understand you’re in some trouble, but this isn’t a campground. We don’t expect to bump into anyone out here, so we’re naturally going to be cautious.”
“O-okay,” she stammers. “Right. Yes. Sorry. But that’s why I came running. We didn’t think we had a chance of finding anyone out here. Especially this time of year. I know it’s off-season for hiking, but this is when my husband had vacation time, and a friend said it was gorgeous here, and the forecast was good and—” She stops and takes a deep breath and then puts out her hand. “I’m Gretchen. We’re from Whitehorse.”
Our daughter is six months old, and our dog is still clearly convinced that we have no idea what we’re doing and, without her intervention, our child will crawl into the woods and be devoured by wolves. We’d been hiking for an hour, with Rory happily bouncing along in the carrier on Dalton’s back. I’d walked behind him, so I can ensure she’s okay … and make faces at her.
We’ve stopped in a clearing, taken her out, and put her on the ground, and Storm is in full herding mode. Despite the fact that Newfoundlands are not herding dogs. Despite the fact that Rory is crawling around gurgling gleefully. Also despite the fact that we walk this route once a week and put Rory down in the exact same spot every time.
When Storm’s anxious growls turn to full-throated Newfie woofs, I cover my ears and shout to be heard over the noise. “One of these days, we are leaving you behind, dog.”
She keeps barking. We keep wincing. And Rory grins up at her massive black-haired mop of a big sister.
I order Storm to lie down, which makes barking impossible, so she resorts to loud grumbling as she watches Rory, ready for … I don’t know, our baby to leap to her feet and make a run for it?
I drop to the ground beside Rory, which seems to calm Storm. Dalton roots around in my pack and pulls out the water canteen, granola bars, and one digestive cookie for our red-cheeked teething baby.
“See, Casey?” he says as he hands me the canteen. “She just needed a distraction from her teeth. Long walks always work. Now, the trick is to tire her out so she falls asleep on the way back and then we can ease her into her crib and really enjoy our day off.”
I stretch out in the long grass. “I’m enjoying this.”
His brows rise. “And that’s all you want for a very rare shared day off when the baby is actually sleeping?”
I smile. “No, I’ll take whatever you’re offering. I just mean that I like this. And not just because she’s finally quiet.”
“Rory? Or Storm?”
“Both.”
I lay my head on Storm’s flank as I watch our daughter grabbing at a grass strand. My miracle baby. A miracle in the sense that I didn’t think I’d ever be able to have children. And a miracle because I never thought I’d find someone I wanted to have them with.
Dalton and I wouldn’t have dared try for a child until the town was fully functional, but nature intervened and gave us Rory. As for Haven’s Rock, it’s been chugging along uneventfully for six months, and uneventful is exactly how we like it. The town continues to fill with people seeking refuge, and we’re growing confident in our ability to provide that refuge.
It’s early September now. In southern Canada, it’d still be summer, with fall on the horizon. Up here, it’s been autumn for a few weeks, the world turning golden and quiet as we begin the descent into another long winter.
Dalton finishes his bar, stretches out in front of Rory, and prods things for her to explore—twigs, rocks, a bug. He grew up in the wilderness and has never left, and I smile as I watch him engaging our daughter in her environment. Storm might not like seeing Rory crawling about on the ground, but this is the life she will lead, and she’s already happiest here, in the sunshine watching a bug crawl up a twig.
When Storm leaps up, unceremoniously dumping me to the ground, I barely have time to recover before she resumes barking.
“Really?” I say. “What’s wrong now? Rory hasn’t moved from…”
I trail off as I realize Storm is looking into the forest. Of course, my husband has already realized this and is on his feet, scanning the trees, fingers resting on the butt of his gun.
Yes, Dalton carries a sidearm. So do I. In Rockton, he was the sheriff and I was his detective, and we continue those roles in Haven’s Rock, mostly because we’ve learned it makes people feel safe, and when the majority of our residents are victims, feeling safe is critical.
We no longer wear the guns around town—that was a Wild West affectation the Rockton council insisted on. But we usually wear them when we leave Haven’s Rock. Dalton doesn’t take his out, though. Just rests his fingers there. We’re not readying our weapons when the “danger” is almost certainly a fox or moose.
Newfoundlands aren’t known to be vocal, and Storm never was … until we brought a baby into the house. Last week, she went into a barking frenzy at a vole that snuck into our chalet. Apparently, it wasn’t only wolves that could devour our child.
As she barks, I lay my hand on her head, telling her we’ve got this. It’s not until I scoop up Rory that Storm quiets. She moves beside Dalton, who’s listening intently. Something’s out there. Big enough that he can hear it moving.
Dalton surveys the clearing. He’s trying to decide whether it’s safe to leave me here while he investigates. If Storm’s barks didn’t send the animal fleeing, it’s not small, and at this time of year predators may actually come closer when they hear her. Snow on the mountaintops warns that winter is coming. Sick or elderly predators can become desperate. That goes double for bears, looking to store up fat to get them through hibernation. Stories of unavoidable grizzly attacks often happen at this time of year, and that’s why I’m not only carrying my sidearm—I also have a rifle on my back. We have a baby now. We are ridiculously careful.
I motion for Dalton to take the rifle and investigate. Then I hold Rory in one arm as I tug the bear spray from my pack and put it in my jacket pocket. Usually, if I saw a bear I’d go for the spray first. With Rory, I’ll make that judgment call when the time comes. Bear spray is very effective under normal circumstances, but a desperate bear does not behave normally.
It’s only after Storm and Dalton are gone that I realize I have too much to juggle here—baby, bear spray, gun.
Storm may have a point. As careful as we are, we’re still new parents.
I look around and then back against a thick pine.
Rory fusses. She was happily on the ground, playing with Daddy, and now Mom is awkwardly holding her in one arm, and Dad and Storm are gone, and it’s boring. Really boring. Which reminds her that her mouth hurts where her first tooth is breaking through.
I bounce her and put my other arm around her, while keeping it ready to grab my gun or spray. I whisper to her under my breath, singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” which is one of three nursery songs I know, and I’m probably getting the words wrong, but she’s six months old—it doesn’t matter. And it really doesn’t matter right now, as I try to keep her quiet—
Rory roars. She came into the world that way, and she’s never stopped. It’s even the joking version of how she got her name. I kiss her cheeks and her forehead and she roars in rage and the remembered pain of her teething, her round face going beet red up to the roots of her wild black hair.
“Shh, shh, shh,” I say as I bounce her faster.
Crashing sounds in the bushes. A dark shape appears maybe ten feet beyond the clearing.
My hand drops to my gun. Screw the spray. I have a baby, and I am not taking chances—
“Hey!” Dalton shouts. “Back the fuck up! Now!”
It is a testament to my fear that, for a moment, I think he might actually be talking to me.
When a human voice answers, I stop, hand on my gun. It sounds like a woman. It’s not Lilith, the wilderness photographer who lives out here. There’s also a mining camp, but there aren’t any women among the miners or staff.
Could it be one of our residents? We have thirty-three women in town now, and unless I know them well, I’m not going to recognize their voice when they’re freaking out … which they would be if Dalton caught them on a secret hike.
Rory has stopped, too, as she turns toward the voice. Something new. Something interesting. I move in that direction slowly, listening until I can make out words.
“—husband was trying to see where we are, and he slipped and fell. His ankle’s twisted. I heard the dog barking and came running. Then I heard a baby. Is there a town here? A settlement?”
I keep walking toward the voices as Dalton says no, there isn’t a town for a hundred kilometers or more. When I step out onto the path, he glowers my way, but I shake my head. It’s not as if she didn’t hear the baby.
I also see the reason for her panic. Dalton has his gun out. His finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger, but all she sees is a man with a gun and a very large dog. When she spots me, she makes a noise almost like a yelp of relief and hurries in my direction.
“Stop, please,” I say calmly. “I understand you’re in some trouble, but this isn’t a campground. We don’t expect to bump into anyone out here, so we’re naturally going to be cautious.”
“O-okay,” she stammers. “Right. Yes. Sorry. But that’s why I came running. We didn’t think we had a chance of finding anyone out here. Especially this time of year. I know it’s off-season for hiking, but this is when my husband had vacation time, and a friend said it was gorgeous here, and the forecast was good and—” She stops and takes a deep breath and then puts out her hand. “I’m Gretchen. We’re from Whitehorse.”
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