The narrow strip carved between the trees sat nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. Most people in Jackson County probably didn’t even realize it existed.
But Clara had noticed things.
The same small plane appearing over and over.
Late flights.
Trucks arriving after sunset.
Strange men she didn’t recognize.
And always the same tail number painted near the rear.
N372FL.
Tonight the plane sat on the strip below.
Its propeller had already stopped turning, but the cooling engine pinged softly in the evening air.
Two trucks sat nearby.
Clara frowned slightly.
That wasn’t normal.
Movement caught her eye.
Men.
Not Wade’s ranch hands.
These men moved differently. Fast. Controlled.
One of them opened the back of a truck while another dragged something heavy toward the plane.
A tarp.
Long.
Too long.
Clara’s pulse slowed.
No…
The tarp snagged against the edge of the cargo door long enough for Clara to see a pale hand—and beneath it, layers of tight, clear plastic wound around the man’s chest and shoulders like industrial packaging.
Dead eyes. Staring at nothing.
Clara slapped both hands over her mouth.
One of the men cursed sharply.
“Move him!”
The body hit the dirt hard before they hauled it toward the plane.
Clara stumbled backward.
