The forest.
Somewhere out there, someone had his deputy, and he was going to find them.
2
Mike Stevens — Miller’s Ridge
Before dawn on Miller’s Ridge—hours after Deputy Sara Parker’s 2:47 a.m. call went unanswered—the woods were still. The air was sharp enough to sting his throat. The rifle’s metal bit into his palm. He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “Stevens, you’re getting soft,” he muttered. “Must be getting old.”
Mike Stevens moved carefully through the brush, rifle easy on his shoulder—more habit than anything. He wasn’t out here for a trophy. He wanted peace—to shake off last night’s smoke and whiskey, to get away from neon and jukebox noise.
Tending bar at Catch My Draft in Sylva was a good gig. He liked the folks there—steady crowd, friendly faces. But some nights it felt like being a part-time therapist, listening to everyone’s troubles across the counter.
Out here, nobody needed anything from him—just him and the woods.
No music.
No voices.
Only wind in the hemlocks and ground he knew by heart.
Opening week—plenty of folks would come through soon, but for now, this was his.
He’d walked these woods since high school—knew them better than most.
The place he’d trusted his whole life suddenly had him on edge.
He stepped onto a rise and froze.
A pale shape lay ahead.
He squinted, took one more step—then jerked back so hard he nearly fell.
Bones.
His mind refused the word.
Not out here.
His pulse slammed in his ears.
A human skeleton lay out in the open.
The rib cage flared wide. A skull perched squarely on top—upright, facing the trail he’d walked in on.
It wasn’t buried.
It was displayed.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
For a second, he couldn’t move—couldn’t even breathe.
Crack.
A sharp snap echoed through the trees.
Mike spun, rifle jerking up, finger poised on the trigger. His breath came fast, white plumes breaking the dark. He swept the timber, every muscle keyed tight.
