“As I already mentioned, fourteen women have gone missing during or right before harvest season over the past fifty years,” Hadley stated again, completely engrossed as she marked several photographs with a large red X. “I spent last night cross-referencing these cases against national databases. Two of these women were actual runaways.”
“What evidence do you have?” Reed might have held the title of police chief for only three years, but he did his best to keep old files up to date as information came in from the sheriff’s office through their liaison. “I have no record of any missing persons having turned up, either alive or in a morgue.”
“I highly doubt the information was communicated to the sheriff’s office. Besides, both of these cases were worked on by former sheriffs with enough time in between that the position had been held by two men, neither of whom was Sheriff Turner. Anyway, both women were located on the West Coast years after their disappearances. One reached out to her sister, and the other moved in with a distant relative. They were teenagers seeking escape from difficult home situations. You and I both know outcomes like this happen more often than not, and the systems shared through law enforcement experience glitches.”
Reed thinned his lips as he observed her mark another red X through a photograph of a smiling young woman.
“This one,” Hadley referred to as she tapped the picture with the other end of the marker, “is Diane Mercer, found deceasedin Wisconsin three years after she went missing. Dental records weren't available for some reason, but she was identified by a distinctive tattoo on her shoulder blade. Her case was closed out by the sheriff’s department.”
Hadley switched out the red dry-erase marker with the yellow one, and he didn’t have to be told her thoughts on what came next. Still, she continued to explain why the young women in the next few photos weren’t connected to Missy Claymont's disappearance.
“Three more can be ruled out due to inconsistencies in their cases,” Hadley explained, marking those photos with yellow circles. “One had a history of disappearing during manic episodes and likely died of exposure in the national forest. Plus, it was the same time as another missing persons case that fits the fifty-some-odd-year pattern. This woman here withdrew her life savings the day before she vanished, suggesting a planned departure. The third had connections to drug trafficking through her boyfriend.”
Reed slowly pushed his chair away from his desk. He realized now just how little sleep Hadley had gotten last night. The intricate research that had gone into these cases would have taken him days if not weeks. There had been no reason to believe that Missy’s disappearance was related to any past cases, regardless that the media was still trying to connect every single one to theThreshing Man.
He finally moved to the front of his desk. The way Hadley had capped the yellow dry-erase marker and replaced it with the black one indicated that she was about to share her theory.
“These eight,” Hadley said, her voice taking on a quieter tone, “share specific commonalities beyond just disappearing during harvest season. All vanished within a five-mile radius of Whistlerun. All were between the ages of sixteen and nineteen.All were described by family or friends as creative, ambitious, eager to leave Cane County behind.”
Reed studied their faces, their names flickering through his memory from case files he'd reviewed over the years. Some had disappeared before he was born, others during his childhood, and one during his tenure as police chief.
“And all eight,” Hadley continued, her finger tracing an invisible line connecting the photographs, “have been linked in local folklore to theThreshing Man, either by the locals or the media.”
“You've been busy,” Reed observed, doing his best to keep any judgment from his tone. He leaned against his desk again and crossed his arms. He wasn’t sure what reaction she expected from him, but he couldn’t not address a particular picture among the eight. “I have to ask, Hadley. Why have you included Emily Esten’s photograph?”
Reed shifted his weight, and the floorboard beneath his foot let out a telltale creak. For several long seconds, she remained motionless, her back to him, her breathing so controlled he could barely detect the rise and fall of her shoulders.
When she finally turned to face him, Reed was struck by the transformation. The professional mask she'd worn since stepping out of her vehicle had vanished, leaving behind glimpses of the vulnerable girl he'd grown up with.
“Because Emily’s body was never found, and Mason has always claimed his innocence,” Hadley replied, her voice steady despite the emotional weight behind her words. She gripped the marker in both hands as if to ground herself. “I know what I saw, and it was enough to convince a jury of my brother’s guilt. A knife that he always carried with him. Blood. My brother exiting the woods where I’d seen Emily enter an hour before. The exact words he said to me. Even though the defense argued that there was no realistic timeframe when he could have buried her body,the jury still convicted him. I’m not retracting my statement, but I also can’t completely dismiss the possibility that my brother’s assertion of innocence might be valid.”
Reed absorbed her reasoning in silence. He didn’t mention that the odds of eight disappearances occurring over fifty years being linked to one abductor weren’t in her favor. Age alone would be a negative factor, but he was more concerned that she might be using Missy Claymont’s disappearance as a personal path of redemption. No child at the age of ten should have experienced what she had gone through. He finally asked the question weighing on his mind, uncertain whether she even had an answer.
“And if you find out that Mason has been innocent this entire time?”
“Then I’ll have to admit that I was wrong. That I cost my brother his entire life. After that?” Hadley turned her attention to Emily Esten’s photo. “I’ll have to learn to live with my mistake.”
Reed resisted the impulse to shut down this entire operation. The right thing to do would be to pick up the phone and request another detective. She’d been right earlier. Her being back here was a conflict of interest, but only because she’d made it that way.
Hadley was on the verge of reopening old wounds that had profoundly shaped not only the course of her own life but also the lives of those within their tight-knit hometown. When touched, those scars had the power to bring back a flood of memories and pain, best left buried in the quiet surrounding fields.
6
Hadley Dawkins
October 2025
Saturday – 8:17am
Hadley eased her foot off the gas pedal as she guided her Equinox through the heart of Whistlerun. A cluster of vehicles neatly parked in the gravel lot of Milrow Funeral Home caught her attention. The modest white building with its green shutters had been a fixture in town for as long as she could remember. A "Viewing Today" sign hung discreetly near the entrance, the black lettering stark against the white background.
Emanuel Telfort had died.
She hadn’t known him well, but the few memories she had were uncommonly kind. He hadn’t been much of a talker, but he always acknowledged her and her mother if they bumped into one another in town. Hadley had the vague recollection of him bringing some type of casserole to the house after her father had died.
“We don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity when it’s neighbors.”
