Nyla always wondered which was harder to clean: mud or blood.

Every man she’d ever asked confidently said that blood was the more difficult of the two, but that wasn’t necessarily a surprise. None of them had spent a humid Tuesday night huddled in their parents’ bathroom, frantically scrubbing their favourite pair of underwear under a stream of cold water and hand soap. There was a tried-and-true method to clean blood if it was dealt with quickly.

Mud was different. For one thing, Nyla could never be certain what it was made of. Some muds were thick and dense, more like wet sand, and barely clung to anything other than themselves. Some were closer to water, leaving enormous stains that looked horrifying but washed away with ease. Then, of course, there was the mud she was sluicing through now. It was gooey, almost gelatinous, and threaded with all manner of decaying underbrush and animal feces.

Mud, or blood?

Nyla supposed she’d get her answer tonight; her clothes were bogged down with a healthy dose of both.

Where the hell was Leo?

The formidable exterior lights of Willow Lodge couldn’t reach her here, deep in the belly of the Basin. Nyla knew the path even without the bobbing beam of her flashlight; there was a dip in the trail up ahead, a low-hanging branch at the base of the next turn, and then she’d be staring at Basin Lake.

With any luck, she’d also be staring at Leo’s campsite.

The man was infuriating on a good day. Nyla cursed him and his haughty, rich-boy attitude with every twig that scraped across her skin. He shouldn’t be out here. She shouldn’t be out here, but she couldn’t leave him to his fate, even if he was the one who’d decided to tempt it.

All these missing hunters were proving to be terrible for business.

Rain had accosted the Basin for days now, leaving the terrain sticky and treacherous for even the most experienced hikers. Nyla had already stumbled over a hidden stump and struck her knee on a displaced stone. Her legs were battered, bruised, and bleeding, her hair drenched and clinging to her scalp. She was uncomfortable, cold, and hungry. When she found Leo, she was going to demand a day at Clary’s Spa as compensation for her trouble. At least she knew he could afford it.

Why did Leo choose now to pursue his game anyway? He was hunting deer. Deer! Of all things! Nyla was no expert hunter, but she knew more than most. Between the late hour, the torrential rain, and the fast-approaching end of the season, Nyla would eat her left boot before betting money on Leo bagging a buck on this trip.

A bright orange ribbon caught her attention, tied tightly around the thickest limb of a beech tree. This was where the lodge’s property line ended, and the hunting grounds opened. It was a fair hike from the brilliantly golden web of cabins that made up the resort, but that was intentional. The last thing Nyla needed was an accident with a hiker.

Leo wouldn’t be too far now.

His tent was easy to spot, even in the dark. Leo wasn’t a hunter, not really. He picked up the hobby to impress his business partners, but he had no interest in actually learning the craft. He made rookie mistakes, things veteran hunters clowned him for, like choosing a tent that stood out against the trees like a sore thumb. It was a vibrant and sparkling red, like someone had thrown a full can of paint onto the bushes.

“Leo?” Nyla yelled over the wind, her voice catching on every branch and leaf between her and the gaudy tent. Leo wouldn’t have heard her if he was standing three feet away. She trudged closer, making as much noise as she possibly could.

“Leo, come on!” Her boot collided with a sunken log, pain zinging up her shin. Nyla cursed, kicking away the mud covering the obstacle so she wouldn’t repeat the mistake. “I’m way too tired for this shit!”

She was practically on top of the tent now, close enough to see the faint glow of Leo’s cellphone through the fabric. She rolled her eyes, slapping the drenched rain cover until the screen went black and the tent door zipped open.

“Nyla? What the hell?”

Leo emerged with a stack of blankets wrapped around his narrow shoulders. His rounded face poked out from beneath a heavy layer of plaid, giving the impression of a ridiculously oversized newborn in a swaddle. Nyla was too rankled to laugh, but it was close.

“What are you doing out here?” Leo demanded, lifting his nose. He was immediately defensive, as she expected. Leo wasn’t used to being questioned, let alone tracked down in the middle of the night like a petulant child disregarding his curfew.

“I should be asking you the same question,” Nyla snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. The flashlight beam bounced wildly, refracting off fat drops of rain. “I told you the Basin is closed. You shouldn’t be here.”

“You can’t close the Basin, Nyla,” Leo said proudly. “It’s not your land.”

“It’s my lodge,” Nyla huffed, tapping her foot impatiently. “And while you’re a guest there, you need to follow my rules.”

Leo opened his mouth as if to argue, but swiftly changed tactics at the dangerous flash in Nyla’s eyes.

“It’s my last night here,” he tried instead, pleading with her. “Let me stay until morning. It’s already after midnight, what harm can it do?”

Plenty, but Nyla wasn’t about to reiterate that point.

“Leo, please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” Nyla pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. “Come on, I’ll help you take down your tent and we can walk back to the lodge together. It’s not safe to be out here right now.”

“What’s not safe about it?” Leo demanded, throwing his arms out wide in exaggerated protest. “I’ve barely left the trail! The lodge is practically in spitting distance, what could possibly—”

A loud, reverberating crack split the air, silencing everything but the howling wind. Nyla flinched to the ground, expecting a tree branch to tumble from somewhere above them, but the forest was still. Too still, she realized quickly. Her attention snapped to Leo and his tent, hoping for the best and expecting the worst.

Leo was gone.

Nyla stared, unblinking. Was she disoriented from her new vantage point? Summoning her strength, she straightened, scanning the scene in front of her with growing confusion and disbelief.

The tent was there, untouched and almost offensive in its peace. The trees were undisturbed, leaves rustling in a melody of scratches and flutters, like millions of insects writhing over each other. Nyla’s gaze skittered over every inch of terrain she could make out in the dark, and Leo was nowhere to be found.

Dozens of scenarios flashed through her mind, each as unlikely as the last. Had a tree branch fallen and knocked Leo out of her line of sight? Had he been startled by the sound and bolted? Nyla had been shocked by the crack too, but she wholeheartedly believed she would’ve noticed if anything happened to Leo. So, what…?

“Leo!” Her call died in her throat as a horrendous screeching echoed through the trees. Nyla jumped, clamping her hands over her ears as the sound reached a painful volume, shaking the very ground she was standing on. A primal, vicious fear swept through her, freezing her blood in her veins. The screeching grew louder, drowning out every other sound. Nyla squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather her senses.

She didn’t want to leave Leo, but—

The screeching crescendoed, knocking her limbs into action before she could think. Nyla didn’t know what was happening or what was making that awful noise; she just knew she had to run.

Twigs snapped beneath her boots as she fumbled for the path, sprinting blindly towards the lodge. The screeching followed her, snatching at her hair and skin, leaving prickly tendrils of ice embedded in her bones. Nyla swallowed a scream, launching herself over the uneven ground with no regard for grace or caution. She had to escape. She had to—

Silence.

All at once, the woods settled into an eerie quiet, like a switch had been flipped. Nyla was so thrown by the sudden change that she tripped, careening into a jumble of wild raspberry bushes. Fear thrashed in her chest as she scrambled to get up again, clawing at the thick, unyielding mud with trembling fingers. The Basin returned to the unnatural state of calm she’d noticed before, not even the leaves daring to make a sound. Nyla didn’t trust it— didn’t trust anything right now— not until she was safely back in the lodge and could collect herself. She wobbled out of the underbrush on wooden legs, pushing her body to make the final stretch to safety.

The lodge’s lights winked into view just as the silence broke, Leo’s screams undercutting the sprawling stars above.

“I’m telling you, that’s not me!”

Aaron tried not to roll his eyes, counting to five in his mind before speaking again.

Gary Yearling was making a scene, not unexpectedly. Lightning Greasers was a small, mom-and-pop style chop shop, so the oil-stained lobby wasn’t exactly teeming with customers. The handful of people that were hanging around huddled in plastic waiting chairs, staring unabashedly at the unfolding drama. Aaron didn’t care— he was there to do a job, nothing more.

“Mr. Yearling.” Aaron sighed, struggling to keep his annoyance in check. “I’m just dropping off the papers.”

“You can take your ‘papers’ and shove them up your ass!” Gary spat, literally. Spittle collected on the dirtied blue linoleum next to Aaron’s shoe. “Then take ’em out and shove ’em up Cathy’s!”

This was the last time, Aaron decided. He was never taking another infidelity case again.

“You can discuss the details with Mrs. Yearling and her lawyer,” Aaron deadpanned, dropping the manilla envelope on Lightning Greaser‘s reception desk. The clerk blinked up at him from behind thick-rimmed glasses, pretending to busy herself with the shop’s paperwork. Aaron let his gaze linger on the stack of crumpled invoices the clerk was (poorly) obscuring with her forearm. The forms had clearly been drafted on a computer and printed, but some of the sections were filled in manually with a pen. A few familiar terms jumped out at him, and Aaron had to bite back a smile.

No wonder Gary Yearling was pitching a fit over the legal system getting involved in his failing marriage.

“I’m not discussing nothing!” Gary snapped, puffing his chest and stepping into Aaron’s personal space. Gary wasn’t a small man, but his height outweighed his muscle by a worrying margin. Underneath his tattered coveralls, Aaron suspected Gary was nothing more than a wraith. “I don’t know where you got those damned pictures, but I’m not having it. Take your papers and get out!”

“Right,” Aaron huffed, giving up on his attempt to remain civil. Gary Yearling wasn’t his client, after all, Cathy was. Or, more specifically, her lawyer. Professionalism wasn’t getting him anywhere, so it was time to change gears. “You’re not a smart man, are you, Mr. Yearling?”

Gary’s mouth fell open, shock silencing him.

“You don’t need to answer,” Aaron continued, easing back onto his heels. He wanted to speak before Gary regained his senses and started swinging. Aaron wasn’t one to engage in unfair fights. “I’ve got my answer from the agonizing few minutes we’ve been speaking. If you were a smart man, you’d have taken these papers and let me get on with my day. Instead, you’re being stubborn and generally unhelpful, which means that I have long overstayed my welcome.”

Aaron leaned an elbow on the reception counter, nodding to the iMac taking up most of the available space.

“Observation is a skill, Mr. Yearling.” Aaron allowed himself a bit of theatrics, catching Gary’s eye with distaste. “A very useful one. While you’ve been huffing and howling, I’ve been paying attention. Let’s see.”

Aaron made no effort to hide his actions now, making a show of needlessly squinting at the computer screen.

“Is there a… Frida Watson here?”

A small, frail woman raised her hand. Aaron felt a surge of bitter anger coat the back of his tongue. Frida Watson looked to be in her eighties, likely with no knowledge of cars or auto work. She was the ideal customer for scum like Gary Yearling.

“I’m just looking at your invoice, Mrs. Watson,” Aaron said conversationally, shooting Gary a cold warning glare when he tried to interrupt. “I notice they’ve charged you $500 for a GW Transmission Flush. May I ask what brought you to the mechanic in the first place?”

“My check engine light,” she squeaked, confusion swiveling her head between Gary and Aaron. Aaron nodded gravely; he’d expected as much.

“It’s a good thing I asked.” Aaron pressed his lips together, looking concerned. “I think there’s been a mistake. A GW transmission flush is rarely necessary.” He turned to the clerk. “I believe you’ve checked the wrong service, ma’am. Simple error. Nothing to worry about.”

“Now, wait a minute—” Gary slapped his palm on the reception desk, crowding the clerk. Aaron stopped him with a sharp stare. He retracted his hand, but he didn’t quiet. “That invoice is correct! I filled it out myself!”

“I have no doubt,” Aaron muttered. He lowered his voice so that the gathered crowd could no longer hear him. “Unlike Mrs. Watson, I know a thing or two about how establishments such as yours make a profit, Mr. Yearling. Unless you want me to announce to the entire lobby that ‘GW’ is mechanic shorthand for ‘Gravy Work’ and that Mrs. Watson should’ve been out the door with a $20 oil change, I’d suggest you shut your damn mouth.”

Gary’s jaw snapped audibly shut.

Aaron made another nod, this time to the stack of invoices piled next to the keyboard.

“And maybe this is just a hunch.” Aaron raised his voice just a touch, enough to make Gary sweat without being overheard. “But in my experience, the only reason a mechanic would hand-write their serial numbers like that is if they were… ‘inaccurate.’ As a matter of fact, I think the local PD could cross a lot of Ts and dot a lot of Is in a few of their open automotive thefts by perusing your records.”

Gary Yearling went pale, sweat beading along the edges of his hairline.

“Luckily for you,” Aaron smirked, “I’m not here about that. I’m here to serve you these papers on behalf of your jilted wife. Now, if I were to stick around at all, maybe call in a favor or two, I could shine some unwanted light on this chop op, but we don’t need to go there, do we Gary?”

Aaron reached into his pocket, popped a piece of gum from the packet, and offered a second piece to Gary. He declined.

“Nah, I don’t think we do,” Aaron mused. “I think you’re going to take that envelope into your office, and I’m going to walk out of this shop, patting myself on the back for a job well done. After that, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do with your sad little life, alright? What do you say?”

Wisely, Gary Yearling chose to say nothing.

“Have a good day, Mr. Yearling,” Aaron said with a grin, pivoting on his heel and heading back into the midday sun.

Man, he really hated his job.

The weather was a poor reflection of his mood, the bright blue sky mocking him with its clarity and promise. Birds sang animatedly from a nearby park bench, and teenagers gathered in the parking lot across the street on their skateboards and bikes. The world was happy. Happy and carefree.

Aaron, on the other hand, was late.

The coffee shop they were going to was on Fifth, about a five-minute walk from the chop shop. Aaron headed there now, keeping his steps quick but refusing to jog. If Pratt caught him literally running late, he’d never hear the end of it. Besides, Aaron wasn’t ignorant to the apprehension roiling in his gut.

Tyler Pratt had graduated with Aaron from the FBI Academy, so they’d crossed paths enough times to become good friends. While they’d started their careers in different departments, eventually they’d collided again in homicide and began their six-year-long partnership. Pratt was the closest thing Aaron had to a brother— he felt guilty for avoiding him for so many months.

Aaron spotted Pratt’s car, which was impossible to miss. The ’89 Ford Taurus with two different coloured doors was parked outside the coffee shop, forcing Aaron to let go of the little bit of hope he had left of hiding his late arrival. If there was one thing he could count on Pratt for, it was tardiness. Not today, of course. Aaron would never be so lucky.

Steeling himself, he pushed through the front door and made directly for the counter.

“I thought you died!”

Annoyance and amusement flooded him in equal measures as he caught Pratt’s eye from a table near the window. Aaron flipped him a middle finger before placing his order and joining his old partner with a sideways smirk.

“Get it out of your system now,” Aaron insisted, pulling Pratt into a one-armed hug. “Before I get sick of you and go home.”

“Private sector’s changed you,” Pratt needled, already enjoying this far more than Aaron was ready for. He sighed, accepting his drink from the barista. “Who’d have thought the infamously punctual Agent Aaron Tomas Carlo Javier Klein would show up late. The Bureau would be disappointed.”

“Hey now, no need to whip out my government name,” Aaron complained, struggling to hide his smile. “In my defense, it’s not my fault. I was on a case.”

“Trouble getting a cat out of tree for an old lady?”

Aaron scowled into his drink, taking the jabs in bemused stride.

“Cheating scumbag refusing his court documents.” Aaron shrugged, easing into the hard plastic chair opposite Pratt. “That reminds me. Lightning Greasers, heard of it?”

“The mechanic on Fleet Street?”

“That’s the one. You might want to pass the name along to someone in the fraud department. I doubt their financial records would hold up to scrutiny.”

Pratt nodded, making a note on his phone to do just that on Monday morning.

“So, is that your business now?” Pratt grinned, displaying his perfectly white teeth. Aaron had always suspected he got some sort of whitening treatment, but Pratt insisted it was genetics. The same genetics that graced him with shining locks of dirty-blond hair and bright blue eyes. Aaron always told him he should’ve been an actor, and put his baby face to better use. He didn’t want to repeat the choice words Pratt regularly threw back at him over those comments. “Chasing down cheaters and bill dodgers?”

“Among other things,” Aaron said, taking an appreciative sip of his latte. “I’m ruling out cheaters, though. Way too messy.”

Pratt coughed out a laugh, pausing with his blueberry muffin halfway to his mouth.

“No more infidelity cases?” He shook his head ‘no.’ “Isn’t that your bread and butter?”

Pratt wasn’t wrong. As a private investigator, Aaron could pay his mortgage with infidelity cases alone. It was how most in his field made a decent living. Aaron’s problem was that he simply didn’t want to be in his field.

“I get other cases, Pratt,” Aaron said defensively, though it was close to a lie. Infidelity wasn’t the first category of assignments he’d stricken from his personal workload. Cheaters joined the growing list of taboos, including missing persons and anything involving tracking down unknown relatives. After that, his job pool was small at best.

“You could always come back,” Pratt mused, his nonchalance deliberately and wholly false. “You left a gaping Klein-sized hole in our unit when you left.”

Aaron inwardly flinched.

“Kelley has it covered,” Aaron huffed, warning Pratt with a piercing gaze to drop it. Pratt listened, but not without an exaggerated eye-roll. “I just wrote off cheating cases for being too messy, and you’re trying to convince me to come back to homicide?”

“That’s a different kind of messy,” Pratt argued. “An interesting one. I got the impression that you wanted to drop this?”

“I do,” Aaron lied.

“Then consider it dropped.”

Pratt knew Aaron better than anyone. He knew that Aaron didn’t idolize the private sector like other investigators he’d met. He knew that if he pushed, Aaron would eventually agree to come back to the FBI’s Chicago field office. But he wouldn’t. Pratt also knew that if Aaron came back due to his prodding, nothing would change and they’d be right back here again in a few years. No, if Aaron came back, it had to be a decision he made on his own.

“How’s Chia?”

Pratt smiled, happy for this change in topic.

“She’s great.” Pratt pulled out his phone, bringing up the most recent photo he’d taken of his wife and young son. “Recovering like a champ. And Isaiah is sprouting up like a damn weed.”

He was right. The picture showed Chia with an impressive cast around her arm, the only evidence that she’d recently undergone surgery for a bone spur in her wrist. Isaiah hung off her free arm, giving his mother a huge, sloppy kiss. Aaron smirked.

“He’s what, three now?” Pratt nodded in confirmation. “Jesus. Seems like yesterday you two were fighting about which crib to buy.”

“Don’t ever bring that up around Chia.” Pratt cringed, shuddering. “Three years and another baby on the way and she still hasn’t let it go.”

Aaron laughed, shaking his head.

“Of course not.” He grinned. “You were wrong, after all.”

Pratt snorted.

“Is Jabulani flying over for this birth too?”

“If she can,” Pratt took a bite of his muffin. “We’re still six months away for sure, and Chia’s father’s health isn’t great. I doubt he’d be well enough to make the trip to Johannesburg, let alone the seven-hour flight after that. She wants to come, but we’ll have to see. Chia wants her here too, so I’m sure she’ll come if she can.”

“And your parents?”

“In Rome at the moment.” Pratt laughed. The last time they’d met, his parents were in Mumbai. Aaron idly wondered where they’d be the next time he got around to a coffee date. “We haven’t even told them yet. You know what my mom’s like- she’ll cut their trip short and book the next flight home. Dad would never let me hear the end of it.”

Aaron eased into the conversation as they spoke, his posture relaxing now that they were clear of dangerous territory. He’d missed Pratt, he realized with a sudden pang of loneliness. Working solo had its benefits, but companionship wasn’t one of them. He didn’t plan on having any kids, but he loved being an uncle to Pratt’s.

A vibration shook his wrist, his smartwatch screen lighting with an incoming email.

“Duty calls already?” Pratt joked, finishing the last sip of his tea. Aaron dismissed Pratt’s half-hearted guess, pulling out his phone to peruse the email.

“Probably just my last client following up.” He’d meant to send a quick message to Cathy’s lawyer when he arrived, but had completely forgotten. “I’ll just respond so she knows I didn’t forget about her.”

Pratt gestured for him to do just that. Aaron tapped the email, freezing with his finger on the ‘reply’ icon. It wasn’t from Cathy’s lawyer after all.

Help

The subject line was simple and to the point, almost ominous in its lack of detail. He didn’t want to look at a new case while he was still engaged with Pratt, but something stopped him from putting away his phone. Intrigue was slithering up his spine like a snake, constricting around his neck until he felt he couldn’t breathe. Aaron wasn’t sure where this sense of foreboding came from. He opened the email.

Good afternoon Mr. Klein,

My name is Nyla Jameson. I’m in some trouble, and I need help. Several hunters have gone missing near Willow Lodge, and local law enforcement isn’t listening to me. I don’t know if you usually deal with this sort of thing, but I didn’t know where else to turn.

I can pay you whatever your normal rates are, I just might need some time depending on how much. If you have any questions, my cell number is 555-3290, or you can call the lodge number in my email signature.

Please help me,

Nyla

Aaron frowned, blinking at the screen for a long time. Pratt must’ve sensed his shift in mood, leaning forward in his chair.

“Klein? Everything okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Aaron cleared his throat, shaking himself. He was no stranger to odd requests. Hell, half of the emails he received were barely legible. All the same, this one was off-putting in a way he couldn’t quite point out. “Sorry, I thought it was my client but it’s a new case.”

“Interesting?” Pratt lifted his eyebrows, feigning casual curiosity. Aaron saw through him immediately.

“Not one I’ll be taking,” Aaron insisted, typing out the same in a reply to Nyla Jameson as politely as he could. Missing persons cases were on his ‘no’ list.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not interesting,” Pratt pointed out. Aaron had to concede that.

“Interesting enough for someone else perhaps,” he grinned, ignoring the pang of uncertainty that sounded in his chest as he hit ‘send.’ “I’ll stick to cats stuck in trees.”

Insomnia was a problem Aaron rarely found himself plagued with, but tonight was determined to be an exception to just about every rule he’d set for himself.

It was nearly two in the morning, and Aaron was wide awake. After his coffee date with Pratt, he’d come home, sent his closing remarks to Cathy’s lawyer, watched a movie, and went to bed. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, nothing to set his teeth on edge, nothing to make him fidget. So why was he still awake?

His house was silent, almost eerily so. He’d thought about getting a dog, but his working hours were too erratic. A cat would be better, he’d just never gotten around to it. He had one in college, but it was a reformed stray and didn’t spend much time indoors. It was barely a pet, really. If he got a cat now, he’d make sure it was an indoor cat. Chicago had far too much traffic to let anything roam. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t feel as secure with a cat in the house. Now, if there was a strange noise or some other disturbance, Aaron would immediately investigate. If he had a cat, maybe he would attribute new sounds to the animal and miss a potential break-in. How many times had pet owners ignored possible threats under the guise of annoyance at their furry friends? Was there a statistic on that? Maybe he could—

Aaron bolted upright in bed, rubbing furiously at his eyes. He was thinking circles around cats for Christ’s sake.

Swinging his legs out from under the covers, Aaron trudged agitatedly into the hall. He was tired. He was grumpy. All he wanted to do was sleep. Why did that have to be so difficult?

A glass of water was his first potential solution, so he headed to the kitchen. He didn’t bother turning on any lights; his eyes were adjusted to the dark, and he knew the layout of his home well enough to fill in any visual gaps. Nothing was ever truly lightless anyway, not with streetlights, digital displays, clocks, and any number of other inconspicuous sources. He could see just fine without ever turning on a bulb.

The water might help, but it might not. What Aaron really needed was to figure out what was bothering him.

Well, to acknowledge what was bothering him.

Cathy and her lawyer had been incredibly grateful for his help. They’d thanked him profusely and promptly settled the balance on the bill without hesitation or complaint. Everything had gone as smoothly as it could’ve. He and Pratt parted ways with a smile, no hard feelings there. No, it was that damn email.

Aaron groaned in frustration, dropping his elbows onto the counter and cradling his head in his palms. He’d already declined Nyla Jameson’s request, so why was he still thinking about it?

Because it was strange, that’s why.

Aaron was a sucker for the hard cases, the ones that felt impossible right from day one. His stomach clenched with anticipation when faced with a puzzle that others had written off, his blood sang when he finally solved it, and he was good at picking out the cases that would give him that thrill and satisfy the craving. For a time, anyway. Eventually, the need would creep up on him again, making him restless, and he’d hunt for another case to continue the cycle. Nyla’s email tickled the dormant part of his brain that told him this case would be like that— different in that intangible way that made his heart race.

“I told her no,” he announced to his quiet house. “I already told her no.”

That should’ve been the end of it, he supposed. Then again, there was no harm in looking into things a little, was there? Nyla had given him a name— Willow Lodge— and a phone number. Surely with that information, he could turn to the internet and find something to scratch his investigative itch.

Glass of water in hand, Aaron returned to his room and retrieved his phone. The light from the screen nearly blinded him until his eyes readjusted, leaving the room around him looking like a wall of inky darkness.

Equipped with the phone number in Nyla’s email, Willow Lodge wasn’t hard to find. Their website was clean and simple, featuring large, high-definition photos of the property and surrounding wilderness. The colour scheme matched the natural atmosphere with different greens and creams. Aaron scanned the website with a practised eye, gathering as much as he could without scrutinizing every word at length.

It looked like a hunting lodge, from the reviews that were posted in their feedback section. That made sense, given the content of Nyla’s email. Nothing on the website seemed to indicate that anything sinister could be going on until he reached the ‘Bulletin Board’ page. The most recent entry was dated one week prior, announcing the closure of an area called ‘The Basin.’ No explanation was given, just that it wouldn’t be available to guests of the lodge for an undetermined amount of time.

Odd. Typically, closure announcements were accompanied by some barebones explanation. Enough to sate idle curiosity, but not quite enough to detail the situation. If hunters were going missing and this closure had something to do with it, Aaron would’ve expected at least a vague warning.

He changed tactics, returning to his search. He found a Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter account for Willow Lodge, as well as a few unrelated accounts for other establishments with similar names, but that was it. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for— articles about missing persons, maybe even a blog post or two. Whatever it was, he couldn't find it. From the perspective of a naïve bystander, Willow Lodge looked like a perfectly safe place to visit.

Very odd.

Aaron leaned back against his pillows, thinking. The lack of evidence supporting Nyla’s claim that something was wrong could be indicative of one of two things: one, there was nothing wrong and Nyla was either paranoid or delusional, or two, something was very wrong and Nyla was in a precarious position with local law enforcement, the nature of which left them questioning her validity as a witness. Aaron wasn’t sure which, if either, he was willing to get involved with.

Neither, he thought adamantly. He already turned her down. The only reason he was looking into this at all was to satisfy his own curiosity. Nothing more.

And yet…

Aaron opened his email almost against his will. No new requests, no follow-ups from old ones. As of right now, his week was glaringly open. He could take on Nyla’s case, if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. Did he?

Curiosity burned in his throat, that old drive to plunge headfirst into a potential mystery nagging at him with infuriating insistence. After his refusal, Nyla wouldn’t be expecting him. If Aaron showed up at the lodge as a potential guest, he could do a quick survey to satisfy his need for answers and she would be none the wiser. If he sniffed a case, he would just reveal himself. No commitment, no risk. There was nothing wrong with that, right?