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Attached beneath the photos is an unsigned statement.

They found out we saw it. That’s why they’re gone.

Cold slides through my chest.

Because suddenly the missing hikers don’t feel theoretical anymore.

My phone buzzes sharply against the table, nearly making me jump out of my skin.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

I hesitate before answering. “Hello?”

Static crackles briefly.

Then a man’s voice drops low through the line. “You’re asking dangerous questions.”

My pulse spikes instantly. “Who is this?”

“You want proof?” he asks quietly. “Meet me tonight.”

Every instinct I have screams no.

Unfortunately, curiosity has always been my fatal flaw.

“Proof of what?”

“The hikers.” Another crackle of static. “The dumping sites. The payoffs.”

I straighten slowly in my chair. “You know who’s responsible?”

“I know enough.”

The phrase hits strangely after spending days trapped in a cabin with Rhett Maddox saying the same damn thing every five minutes.

“When?” I ask carefully.

“Tonight. Eight o’clock. Old ranger station off Blackwood Trail.”

“That place is abandoned.”

“That’s why nobody’ll see us.”

Alarm bells go off instantly.

“You could just email me the files.”

“No phones. No paper trail.” His voice lowers further. “You want the truth or not?”

The line goes dead before I can answer.

I stare at the phone for a long second afterward.

Then curse quietly under my breath.

Because this is exactly the kind of setup that gets women murdered in documentaries.

And somehow I’m still considering it.