October 2025
Saturday – 11:06am
He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned bone-white. The truck's cabin trapped the heat of his shallow breaths despite the breeze seeping through the slightly cracked window. From this vantage point beneath the ancient oaks, the gravel shoulder offered perfect concealment—close enough to observe Hadley Dawkins' childhood home, yet far enough to remain undetected if she happened to step out and survey her surroundings.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped the perspiration away with the back of his hand. He made sure not to take his gaze off the front porch. His pulse throbbed in his temples, each beat a warning that something fundamental had shifted in Whistlerun since Hadley's unwelcome return.
“Damn reporters,” he muttered, the words filling the truck's cabin with bitter resonance. He finally released his hold of the steering wheel to drum his fingers in an erratic rhythm againstthe dashboard. “It’s all their fault. They’re causing too much attention.”
A car passed behind him on the main road, and he instinctively ducked his head, though the low-hanging branches provided adequate cover. The movement sent a sharp pain through his neck. His muscles were knotted from hours of laborious work. When he straightened, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror—eyes too wide, skin pallid beneath his tan.
He quickly switched his attention back to the front porch.
“Look all you want, Hadley. You won't find anything now. It's been a year.”
The thought comforted him momentarily. Sheriff Turner and Chief Langley had combed through every inch of those woods, taken every statement from those at the festival, and analyzed every possible lead. They had found nothing substantial enough to warrant an arrest. If they had possessed anything concrete, they would have come for him already.
He’d stood in the back of the funeral home, overhearing almost every conversation dissolve into a town-wide forum on Hadley Dawkin’s unexpected return. Instead of focusing on the good man lying in the casket, the gathering had shifted to reminiscing about the life of Mason Dawkins.
Had Mason really abducted and killed Emily Esten?
The question had divided Whistlerun for two decades, and the speculation had been exacerbated by Hadley's return. Half believed she'd come back to finish what she'd started, ensuring her brother served his full thirty-year sentence. The other half whispered that perhaps she'd returned to clear Mason's name after realizing her childhood testimony might have been flawed.
Mason’s former classmates remained divided, too. Some clung stubbornly to his claims of innocence despite the conviction. Then the subject turned to the violation of familyloyalty. It represented something fundamentally broken in the natural order, regardless of what Mason had or hadn't done.
He checked the time on the dashboard. She’d been inside for a while now. How simple it would be to sneak inside and wait for the right moment. Maybe a nudge down the stairs. Or a shove in the back, ensuring that her head cracked into some corner on a coffee table.
His hand drifted toward the gearshift, fingers curling around the worn plastic with possessive intent. A car crash, maybe? One simple accident, and this threat would vanish as completely as all those girls.
The thought triggered something almost like relief—a solution so straightforward it carried its own terrible elegance. Hadley Dawkins, the detective who returned to solve one disappearance, only to become another statistic on these treacherous Ozark roads.
“A tragedy,” people would say. “Coming back only stirred up old ghosts.”
The fantasy dissolved as suddenly as it had formed when he realized such an accident might not be viewed as such. What if he made a mistake, and her death was ruled a homicide? Langley or Turner might theorize that her death was connected to Missy Claymont…to him.
It was best to carry on as usual.
He reached up to adjust his tie in the rearview mirror. The polyester fabric knotted easily but was somehow always slightly crooked against his collar. He straightened it with methodical care, then smoothed his hair with his palm. The reflection that stared back at him now was composed, controlled—the face he presented to Whistlerun daily.
He turned over the engine. After shifting the gear into drive, he pulled off the gravel shoulder and made a U-turn. When hearrived at the stop sign, he came to a complete halt, counting a full three seconds before proceeding.
No rushed movements.
No suspicious behavior.
Just another citizen going about his day.
After all, he'd learned patience from the best teacher imaginable—theThreshing Manhimself, who waited in silent fields for the perfect moment to claim what was owed.
10
Nick Turner
October 2025
Saturday – 1:33pm
Edgar Gleason’s makeshift driveway was little more than a large dirt patch worn smooth by decades of tire tracks. The ranch-style home was typical for this area, as was the old barn off to the side. The older gentleman had done what he could to maintain both structures, though the barn could use a fresh coat of paint.
