Page 25 of Silent Shadows

“Wait, I read about that!” I match his excited energy. “That’s what people say messes with their organs and stuff, right? The frequencies they feel more than hear?”

Maya nods. “Elephants use it. Tigers do. Some researchers think certain experiences people describe—panic, nausea, dread—could be connected.”

“Researchers?” I ask.

“Bigfoot researchers.”

“Oh.” I pause. “Researcher” feels generous. When I hear that word, I picture someone with a Ph.D. and a university email address. Maybe a lab coat. At minimum, a study that’s survived peer review.

Not someone who believes in Bigfoot.

I keep that part to myself.

Mostly because I need these people to like me for the next few weeks. But also because there’s something almost disarming about how seriously they all talk about this. Like there’s absolutely nothing strange about dedicating your life to finding things most people stopped believing in around the same time they stopped checking under the bed for monsters.

I make sure my smile is back in place as I ask, “So… have you guys actually found anything?”

Maya considers it. Across from us, Miles glances toward us for a second before returning to his maps.

“Well, yes. We believe people experience things,” she says finally.

“And Bigfoot?” I ask, wanting more certainty.

She smiles, then looks out the windshield.

“The world is weird, Daisy,” she says quietly. “People see things. Hear things. Lose things. Find things. And sometimes there are patterns. That's all.”

“Okay, but let's say Bigfoot exists,” I carry on.

Jax spins around in his chair and doesn’t stop spinning in circles. “Which he does.”

“What then?” I ask.

Maya shrugs. “More proof we’re not alone.”

“More?” Maya seems to pick up that I’m looking for her to get real.

“Yep. We’ve absolutely encountered paranormal anomalies that suggest the veil is thinner in this universe than most people think. Ghosts, local cryptids, you name it. We’ve worked cases across the country that provide evidence of unexplainable phenomena. Our goal—or the goal of this particular mission—is to get more evidence. Tracks and audio, mostly. Winning gold would mean getting video footage. And, with your help, we get more reach, which means more financial support, so we can keep doing this kind of research.”

“No pressure for either of us then?”

She laughs, and I can feel her warmth through it.

The “quick” drive takes another hour, and the barren desert gives way to southwestern forest. Red rock fades into dense stands of ponderosa pine and Gambel oak, the air sharpening with elevation. Meadows open unexpectedly between clusters of trees, bright green against volcanic soil, while old cinder cones rise in the distance like sleeping giants. The farther we climb, the more the landscape changes its mind. One minute we're winding through a thick forest that smells of vanilla and rain, and the next we're skirting wide valleys framed by sandstone cliffs glowing gold in the late-afternoon sun.

I’m lost in the landscape, watching out the window until we pull into a tiny RV park next to a diner and a truck-stop gas station. Our spot is at the edge of the campground, one of the biggest this place has to offer. Clusters of pine trees separate us from the neighboring sites. Out the back, there’s access to a trail system, shaded by taller pinyon pines. You can see a broad view of distant ridges stretching toward the horizon beyond the tree line. From the front of the site, you can see the diner’s neon sign flickering on for the evening. The four of them park and hook up the RV with minimal exchange of words, each clear on their role. I watch, half in awe and half in disbelief at the efficiency of it all. Once they’re back inside and all the shoes are kicked off, they start working at their own little stations.

“So,” I say brightly, slipping back into work mode before the moment can become a thing, and pulling out my recorder. “Where can I set up?”

Miles changes in an instant. His shoulders straighten. His attention sharpens.

“Oh,” he says. “Right. Recording.”

I pause, unsure of how not to sound condescending. “Yes. That’s generally how podcasts work.”

“Right. Obviously.” He nods too many times. “Cool. Great. Love recording.”

Taylor bites her lip to stop smiling.