But this might have been the first time he’d followed a mystery by sound.
And it was definitely the first time he’d done it with a beautiful woman at his side.
“Hear that?” Krista asked, pausing on the narrow game trail.
They’d set out before sunrise—the only way to fit everything in. It was the last day of the swap, and it was going to be long. Joe didn’t mind. He’d been up half the night thinking about her anyway. Sleep could wait until his next assignment. Time with Krista was precious.
He stilled and listened. Beneath the usual forest soundtrack—birds, insects, wind in the trees—another note threaded through. Faint at first. Then clearer the longerhe listened.
“Singing,” she said softly.
She turned in a slow circle, eyes closed, head tilted, as if she could feel the sound brushing her skin. The afternoon light slid through the canopy, catching on the edge of her curls, on the gold hoop in her ear, on the strap of the camera hanging against her chest.
For a second, he forgot about water and sound and every lead in Isabel’s diary. He just saw her—cheeks flushed from the hike, curls unruly. She looked like she belonged here. Like some part of her had always been walking toward this place.
Zoe and Jackson were supposed to come too. But Jackson had stopped by the Hideaway yesterday and claimed they couldn’t make it.
Joe might’ve believed him if Jackson hadn’t followed it up with a comment about how he and Zoe “really appreciate the privacy of nature,” and “maybe you and Krista would too.”
They’d left the main trail twenty minutes ago, ducked under low branches. The water was louder now.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Krista opened her eyes and scanned the slope below. The ground fell away more steeply here, trees thinning just enough to show glimpses of rock.
“I think…” She exhaled, then pointed. “There.”
They picked their way down the incline, boots sliding on pine needles, Frankie trotting between them as if he’d personally scouted the route months ago. The “singing” grew clearer with every step, a jumble of notes and echoes, like someone plucking a harp underwater. Moonlight Kiss blooms dotted the bank, bumblebees drifting lazily between them.
At the bottom, Joe saw it.
A narrow stream tumbling over a ten-foot ledge, fanning out into a frothy waterfall before dropping into a dark pool. Water struck stone in multiple places, splitting the sound into overlappingtones. The surrounding rock walls curved inward, cupping the sound and throwing it back.
“The water there always sings,” Krista murmured, the diary line drifting out like she was barely aware she’d said it aloud.
He turned slowly, taking in the shape of the space. A natural alcove. Beyond the waterfall, the rock sloped back into shadow.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Joe.” Krista stepped toward the rock by the waterfall, eyes narrowed. “Look.”
He followed her gaze. At first, it seemed like nothing—just cracks in the stone. Then his eyes adjusted, picking up the faint, deliberate lines.
A bear.
Not a realistic one—more like an old woodcut illustration. Broad shoulders, round ears, a curve to the back. The lines were shallow but sure, weather-worn but unmistakable.
“The Legend of Bear Lake,” he said.
Krista glanced at him, a startled smile flickering. “You see it too, right? I’m not imagining this.”
“Definitely not,” he said. “That’s either a bear or the world’s angriest raccoon.”
Her laughter bounced off the rock and came back thinner, warped; the water’s song had picked up a new note.
Frankie trotted over and sniffed the rock, then sneezed dramatically like he’d just solved the case and now he wanted a treat.
Krista stepped closer, fingers hovering just shy of the carving. “Just like from the legend. The bear is still keeping watch.”
