According to statements from Richie McCarthy and Veronica Lane, Missy wandered away from their group a little after ten that night. They had confessed to stealing the moonshine and drinking throughout the evening, even admitting that some of their close friends hadn’t been able to join them in their little crime spree. The subsequent search was concentrated in these woods after Veronica stated she noticed Missy disappear behind the ring-toss booth.
Hadley followed the trail the dogs found, only to retrace some of the path. The dogs eventually picked up Missy’s scent again, heading east. The ground sloped gently downward before leveling into a small clearing. This was where Martin Cox had found the cell phone, its screen cracked but still powered on.
Hadley studied the immediate area thoroughly.
A year of seasonal changes had erased any physical evidence, but she could visualize the scene as it would have been that night. The forensic team had also found a discarded napkin, confirmed by DNA to be Missy's. Given that the substance came back as urine, they were left to believe she had sought privacy to relieve herself.
Why walk so far into the woods to do so?
Unless she had been abducted closer to the festival. Had she been carried? Dragged? Had the napkin and phone been clutched in her hands, only to be released in a final moment of panic?
The search dogs had picked up Missy's scent from this clearing, following it due east through the woods until it abruptly ended at a gravel access road that ran alongside the Cox property. This detail—buried in paragraph seventeen of the sheriff's report—had captured Hadley's attention immediately. The scent trail ending at such a location suggested Missy had been transported elsewhere by vehicle…an access point known only to locals.
Hadley brushed some dirt from her jeans as she mentally overlaid the geographical profiles of the eight disappearances. Three had last been seen at or near the Harvest Festival. Two had vanished while walking home along natural routes that skirted these same woods.
Someone was hunting here.
Someone who knew these woods, these roads, the rhythms of this community. Someone patient enough to wait for the perfect opportunity. Someone who understood that the festival's noise and confusion provided ideal cover. And someone clever enough to use local superstition as camouflage.
Hadley's thoughts were interrupted by the distant rumble of an engine. A vehicle was approaching on the access road. She tensed, shifting her weight to remain partially concealed behind a broad oak trunk.
The sound grew louder, and through the trees, she caught glimpses of a light blue pickup truck moving slowly along the gravel road. It wasn't speeding or driving erratically—just advancing at an unhurried pace. The driver slowed further as it approached the section of road closest to where she stood, itsengine idling with a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the earth beneath her feet.
Hadley stepped out from behind the tree, causing the driver to immediately brake. A young man in his early twenties with sandy blond hair rolled down the window. Without hesitation, he leaned out with a smile.
“Need a lift?” he called, his voice carrying easily through the quiet woods. “These back roads can be pretty rough if you're on foot. Are you working the festival?”
Hadley maintained enough distance to react if necessary, though the young man's open expression didn't trigger any immediate alarm.
“I appreciate the offer, but I'm fine,” Hadley replied, reaching for her badge. She unclipped it from her belt and held it up, allowing the metal to catch the light. “Detective Hadley Dawkins, Arkansas State Police.”
The young man's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but recognition quickly followed. He straightened in his seat, adjusting his posture as if suddenly aware he was under scrutiny.
“I heard about you.”
“Let me guess,” Hadley offered up with a smile. She’d get more information with honey rather than vinegar. She had also observed his attire, which consisted of a black button-down dress shirt and a dark grey tie that he’d already loosened. “You’re coming from Emanuel Telfort’s viewing.”
“That’s right. I'm Ty Hobbs,” he offered, extending his hand through the window. “And you’re very good at your job. I’m friends with his son, Kalen. The funeral is this afternoon, but we’re harvesting one of the fields today. I promised my uncle that I would help out for a few hours before then.”
Hadley moved forward to accept the handshake. His grip was firm but not aggressive, his palm warm and dry against hers.
“I didn’t realize that Mr. Telfort had a son. I’m sorry for his loss.”
“Mr. Telfort was a good man.” Ty settled back into his seat. “He taught me a lot about the land.”
Ty peered over her shoulder with interest, his gaze lingering on the dense trees behind her. Though he was older than Missy, this was Whistlerun. Everyone was familiar with one another.
“You already know that I'm investigating Missy Claymont's disappearance,” Hadley said, deliberately redirecting the conversation toward the local folklore. "Do you believe in theThreshing Man, Ty?"
The question hung between them. Ty tugged at his collar as if it had suddenly tightened around his throat despite being unbuttoned.
“I don't know,” Ty reluctantly admitted. “I mean, most days it sounds crazy, right? Some tall faceless thing that takes people during the harvesting season?”
Ty laughed, a short, tense sound filled with unease.
“It's difficult not to imagine there is some truth to it when it keeps happening.”
“When did it happen last?” Hadley asked, curious as to what his answer might be. “Do you know?”
