"State land," Ethan says. "Mostly forest, some abandoned cabins from the logging days."
"Cabins," I repeat, the word sending a chill down my spine. "That's where he's going."
"You're sure?" Trenton asks.
I look up at him, at Matthew, then at my father who has joined us. "It fits his pattern. Isolated. Familiar. Somewhere he can control the situation."
Ethan is already moving. "I'll get units out there. We can have the area surrounded in an hour."
"Too long," I say, urgency making my voice sharp. "If he thinks we're closing in, he'll panic. He might?—"
I can't say it. Can't voice what we all fear.
"We need to move now," Greyson says. "The club can cover more ground than the police."
Ethan hesitates, then nods. "I'll coordinate with the department. But be careful if he's armed…"
"We know what we're doing," Trenton says, already heading back to the truck.
As we prepare to move out, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to find my dad, his face lined with worry.
"Morgan," he says quietly. "You don't have to do this."
I meet his eyes, seeing the fear there, the same fear I've carried since learning the truth. "Yes, I do."
"Let the police handle it," he urges. "Let them find him."
I shake my head. "Charlie might not have that kind of time. And I…" I take a breath. "I need to see this through. For those women. For Charlie."
Dad's jaw tightens, but he nods. "Then I'm coming with you."
The four of us—Trenton, Matthew, my father, and I—climb back into Greyson's truck. Other club members follow in their own vehicles, a convoy of leather and determination heading toward the abandoned cabins.
"We'll find her," Matthew says, his hand finding mine. "We'll find them both."
I nod, but the fear remains, cold and sharp, in my chest. We're running out of time. I can feel it in my bones, in the way the afternoon light is already beginning to fade.
The road narrows as we approach the state land, trees crowding close on either side. We pass a weathered sign marking the boundary, the paint faded and peeling.
"He's here," I say, the certainty settling in my gut. "Somewhere in these woods."
Greyson slows the truck, scanning the overgrown tracks that branch off from the main road. "Which way?"
I close my eyes, trying to think like Evan, to understand the mind of a monster.
"He'd want to see anyone coming," I say finally. "High ground, with a clear view of the approach."
Trenton points to a track that climbs a low ridge. "There."
We follow the track, the truck bouncing over ruts and exposed roots. The forest presses in around us, dark and silent. I scan the trees, looking for any sign of movement, any indication that we're not alone.
"There," Matthew says suddenly, pointing ahead.
Three days of searching turns up nothing. The forest feels endless, swallowing our efforts whole. We've combed every trail, checked every cabin, questioned every hiker. The police have their own grid search underway, but they're running out of leads.
I'm sitting in the passenger seat of Trenton's truck, staring at the map spread across my lap. The red circles marking our search areas blur together.
"Morgan." Matthew's voice is quiet from the back seat. "We should head back. It's getting dark."
