“TheThreshing Man,” Hadley corrected him automatically, then instantly regretted drawing attention to her familiarity with the legend. Still, the story from her childhood was a diversion she would take until she could figure out a way to get Ellis to change his mind. “Not a scarecrow. TheThreshing Manis just one of those campfire stories told to keep kids close to home during the most dangerous time of year for farm accidents.”
Ellis hadn’t been born and raised in Arkansas, so he was unaware of how twisted some of the folklore could be that originated from the heart of the Ozarks. He also had no idea what returning to her childhood home would do to her mental state.
“TheThreshing Manis supposed to be this tall, faceless figure that appears in the woods when the harvest moon is full,” Hadley continued to give herself more time. The desperation to escape from this conversation was overwhelming. “Some versions say he carries an ancient threshing flail. Others say his hands are strong enough to separate the worthy from the damned. He comes when the fields go quiet. When the air smells like rot and the sky goes copper. He doesn't reap what's sown—he takes what's owed.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ellis muttered in disgust. “And the residents still believe that shit? In this day and age?”
“People believe what helps them make sense of tragedy,” Hadley replied, more sharply than she intended. “When someone goes missing in a place like Whistlerun, it's easier to blame a boogeyman than face the reality that someone in their community might be capable of violence.”
She didn't need to add that she'd been the one to shatter that illusion two decades ago. That at ten years old, she'd pointed to her own brother as the monster in their midst. But she would say it aloud if it meant she could forget this request was ever asked of her.
“You know very well that I put my brother in prison for killing Emily Esten. Even though her body was never found, Mason is serving a thirty-year prison sentence for her murder. I’m the little girl who testified against her own flesh and blood, and the locals don't forget something like that. Involving me would present itself as a conflict of interest.”
“As much as you wish that to be the case, your brother’s crimes have nothing to do with Missy Claymont’s disappearance.” Ellis leaned forward and slid a file toward her with deliberate slowness. Missy Claymont's name was printed across the tab in bold black letters. “With the Cane County Harvest Festival set to open in two weeks, the story has onceagain garnered the media’s attention. You know how it goes—unsolved disappearance in the Ozarks linked to some creepy urban legend. It’s the perfect storm. You know the area, Dawkins. You know the people. You know the culture.”
“I'm not the only detective from rural Arkansas,” Hadley pointed out tersely, her gaze still fixed on the folder. Anger was beginning to replace the shock of his demand. “Besides, the county sheriff’s office has jurisdiction. You and I both know this isn’t about knowing the locals. I haven’t set foot in Whistlerun for over twelve years.”
Hadley figured she was teetering on insubordination, but he didn’t seem to understand that he was asking the impossible from her.
“This is about a missing teenager,” Brosmer stressed, tapping his desk to make a point. “As for the county sheriff’s office, they’re knee deep in that drug smuggling investigation. Not to mention they’re short-staffed.”
“Sarge, you’re not listening to me.” It took every ounce of strength she had not to throw the baseball through the window behind him. “Those people won't talk to me. They'll see me and remember everything they'd rather forget.”
Whistlerun was a place where three generations might live on the same plot of land, where grudges were inherited like heirloom furniture, and where every slight was recorded in the community's collective memory. No one wanted her back there.
“I understand that returning to Whistlerun might stir up some bad memories for you,” Ellis said, his voice gentler than before. She didn’t need his pity, but he continued before she could point that out. “You were a child, Hadley. A little girl who saw something terrible and told the truth about it. No one in their right mind would blame you for that.”
Another memory surfaced, this one enough to induce a wave of nausea. She was sitting in a hard wooden chair at theWhistlerun police station, her feet dangling above the floor. Police Chief Garber was leaning toward her, his sour breath asking the same question over and over again.
“What was your brother holding in his hand, Hadley?”
“A knife. The one Daddy gave him to clean fish.”
“Are you sure it was your brother you saw?”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
“I'm sure.”
But was she certain of her recollection? That question had haunted her for years afterward, following her through nightmares and quiet moments of doubt. The image of her brother in the woods had been so clear that night—until it wasn't, until the memory blurred at the edges and mixed with stories of theThreshing Man, until she couldn't separate what she'd seen from what she'd been told she must have seen.
Hadley had spent the past decade building a life carefully separated from Whistlerun. While her department covered several counties, she never, ever took assignments in Cane County. Ever. Returning meant exposing wounds she wasn't sure had ever truly healed.
“Look,” Ellis continued, “I understand your reservations. But there's a lot of pressure coming from above on this one. The media has already run with the story, and the mayor is concerned that it’s going to dampen the turnout of the Cane County Harvest Festival. You know, as well as I do, that tourism is a big deal for these small communities.”
“So, this is about protecting Cane County's festival revenue?”
“Once again, it's about finding out what happened to Missy Claymont,” Ellis corrected firmly, his eyes narrowing in disapproval. “But yes, there are other considerations at play. That's the reality of the job, as you well know.”
He reached for a pen, picked it up, and began tapping it against the phone console on his desk.
“I've already spoken with Police Chief Langley. He agrees that he needs assistance in helping to alleviate the media’s interest.”
Hadley would have laughed if she hadn’t been so afraid it would turn into an ugly crying session. The last time she'd seen Reed Langley, he'd been standing on the side of the road as she loaded her belongings into her car. He hadn't waved goodbye. Hadn't even uttered one word. He just watched her drive away from Whistlerun with an expression of disappointment.
“I'm sorry, Dawkins,” Ellis said, his tone making it clear the discussion was over. “But I need you in Cane County first thing tomorrow morning.”
And just like that, Hadley’s carefully constructed life—the fragile distance she’d painstakingly carved between past and present—crumbled in an instant. The ghosts she’d battled for so long were closing in, relentless and unforgiving, like theThreshing Man’scold shadow reaching out to claim her from the darkest recesses of her memories.
