“I still need to hear the details, Mason. I read the report, but I can’t trust that Chief Garber documented everything.”
“I was hoping that if I didn’t join her, she’d get scared and come back. But then I heard her scream.” Mason’s jaw tightened, and Hadley got the sense that he heard that scream often in his mind. “I found her caught in some kind of trap. Like a snare, but more elaborate. Wooden spikes had cut into her ankle. She was bleeding. Crying.”
No trap had been found during the subsequent search of the woods, and neither had Emily’s body. It wasn’t easy for a prosecutor to receive a guilty verdict without a body, but he’d gotten one all the same.
“I pulled out my pocketknife to cut her free,” Mason continued, his fingers unconsciously mimicking the motion. “I kept telling her that it would be okay, that I'd get her out of it.Then I noticed the tarp underneath her. I even stopped trying to pry the trap open, trying to understand what was happening. But that's when something was thrown over my head. A bag, maybe a hood—all I know was that it was burlap. I couldn't see, but whoever did it cinched it tight around my neck before shoving me to the side. By the time I was able to get the hood off, Emily was gone. So were the tarp and trap. All three had just vanished like they'd never been there at all.”
“A tarp?” Hadley couldn’t recall a tarp ever being mentioned back then. And she had read through those court transcripts enough to be certain of her memory. “No tarp was ever mentioned at trial.”
“I brought that to my lawyer’s attention, too. He said there was no mention of a tarp in my original statement. To bring it up during trial would signal that I was changing my initial story, and he didn’t think that was wise.”
Mason fell silent for a moment, his breathing shallow and controlled.
“I tried to find her, Hadley. I called her name a thousand times, but she never answered me. Eventually, I found my way back to the festival, hoping that someone would help me find her. No one believed me, though. I had her blood on me, on my knife, and there was no evidence anyone else had been there. I couldn’t even find the place where the trap had been, but then I realized that’s why the tarp had been placed underneath. I couldn’t prove a thing. Like I said, Emily’s blood was all over me, my knife, and my fate was sealed.”
The image of Mason with blood on his shirt and hands flashed in Hadley's mind. The look on his face had been guilt, but not for the reason he was convicted by a jury of his peers. He couldn’t save Emily, and that was a fate worse than death.
“Do you have any idea what kept me going all these years?” Mason asked, not waiting for her response as he leaned forwardwith such intensity that Hadley pulled back from the partition. “Knowing that in ten years, I'll walk out of here and find who really killed her. I think about it every day—who might have been in those woods that night, who might have wanted to hurt her. It's the only thing that matters anymore.”
Hadley had been wrong, and she’d misjudged her brother completely. Mason wasn’t resigned to his fate. He’d been fueled by a single-minded purpose all these years, and he sought vengeance for a crime that had gone unsolved for two decades.
She was prevented from responding when a guard approached Mason from behind. He wasn’t the one near the door, but the guard who had signed her in and stored her firearm in a locker.
“One minute, ma’am.”
Hadley nodded her appreciation at the courtesy. She could have spoken to the warden and requested additional time, but she needed to get back for Reed’s funeral.
“You should know that I kept the house,” Hadley disclosed, noticing the way Mason’s shoulders had tensed upon hearing their time was coming to an end. “I've been paying the property taxes on it, though it still needs to be cleaned out. You’ll have a place waiting for you when you get released.”
“Do me a favor, nugget. Be careful,” Mason warned, concern written on his features. “I don’t want Sam’s next visit to be a death notification. If Reed was murdered to cover up those abductions, this guy won't hesitate to kill you. He’s been getting away with this for decades. He won't stop now.”
22
Warren Caldwell
October 2025
Saturday – 2:27pm
George and Dana Langley's living room held the quiet dignity of people who mend rather than discard. Armchair cushions bore the gentle indentation of years, while wallpaper flowers had slightly faded in sympathy.
Along the mantel, a timeline of photographs chronicled Reed's journey from a first-grade smile with its deliberate gap to the squared shoulders of his military portrait. The glass that protected each image now seemed to preserve something far more important—memories.
Warren surveyed the living room with practiced discretion. He adjusted his tie before smoothing the silk material against his chest. With a quick glance, he was satisfied that his mayoral pin was perfectly placed on the lapel.
He had already made his way through clusters of mourners. With each hand he shook and shoulder he squeezed, he added another brick to the wall of community solidarity he'd spentyears constructing. He ignored the nauseating scents of the funeral flowers as he continued to speak with Dana. He was confident that he had extended his condolences before anyone else.
“…give you my word that we are doing everything we can to find the person responsible, Mrs. Langley.” Warren had her attention for most of the conversation, but she appeared focused on something or someone else right now. For the life of him, he couldn’t confirm the focal point. “Reed was a credit to this town, and we won’t let him down.”
Warren had delivered variations of this speech dozens of times throughout his terms as mayor. He tailored the sentiment to fit each tragedy, and he'd learned early in his political career that people didn't actually want raw honesty in their darkest moments. They wanted the comfort of familiar platitudes delivered with conviction.
He viewed his role as the town's emotional caretaker with solemn responsibility. The residents of Whistlerun needed someone to shoulder their collective grief, to provide soothing half-truths rather than harsh realities.
Every funeral, every tragedy required his careful shepherding of public sentiment. Reed's death was not just a personal loss for Dana and George. It was a wound in the community's sense of safety that Warren needed to bandage before infection could spread.
Dana’s eyes narrowed, and Warren quickly followed her line of sight. The hushed conversations that faded should have clued him in on the most recent guest.
Hadley Dawkins had stepped across the threshold, her black pantsuit a bit too severe against her pale skin. Her brown hair had been pulled back with a simple clip that emphasized the sharp lines of her face. She also carried herself with theunmistakable bearing of law enforcement, which caused her to appear slightly removed from the grief surrounding her.
