Page 201 of Silent Shadows

“No, but I’ve heard of them.”

The table laughs, and for a heartbeat, everything feels easy. Miles gets quiet, watching everyone at the table.

“I, uh, I just want you guys to know, we could call it,” he says. “And it would be okay.”

The words surprise me. Taylor looks up sharply, dropping her fork on the plate.

“Miles,” she says, incredulous. “Be for real.”

Miles ignores her, keeping his eyes on mine.

“If this feels too exposed, if we think the risk is too high, we stop. We’ve got other cases on deck. I know I’ve been hanging onto this one, but that’s exactly why I felt I had to say something.” He looks around the booth. “All of you are more important to me than getting to the bottom of this. If we don’t go through with this expedition, it’s not the end of the world.”

I know what that would cost him. I know exactly what the hunt means to him. A thread connecting him to people he lost and a childhood full of wonder and a version of the world where grief didn’t get the final word. And he would put it down. For us. For me.

I reach under the table and take his hand.

“No,” I say. “We’ve come this far. And I think we all want to wrap this one on a good note. No matter what happens. At least we’ll know we tried.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

His gaze searches mine. A muscle in his jaw moves, and then he nods. The room exhales around us.

Taylor folds the map. “Then let’s finish breakfast and move, bitches.”

The rest of the day is like muscle memory for everyone but me.

Back at camp, the Mystery Machine transforms from odd little home to command center. The softness of morning gets packed away with the blankets. Monitors glow. Batteries charge. Radios line up on the counter. Gear spreads across every available surface in organized piles that would look like chaos to anyone outside of this crew.

Maya checks med kits twice. Then a third time.

Tourniquets. Bandages. Thermal blankets. Water purification tablets. Antiseptic. Splints. Emergency beacon. Satellite phone.

Jax labels camera batteries with blue painter’s tape and mutters a running commentary about how every horror movie begins with “one last hike.”

Taylor sharpens a pink-handled knife on the RV step. I don’t ask why.

Owen loads rope, climbing gear, and a hard case of equipment he refuses to explain beyond, “Useful.”

Miles stands over the map table, marking route timing in pencil.

Pencil. Because erase-ability comforts him. And that’s something I know.

The final route bends south along a dry wash, then climbs through high desert brush toward a series of sandstone shelves. From there, we’ll push into a cave system Owen found on old survey overlays, partially collapsed and mostly unmapped. A thermal anomaly from two nights ago vanished in that direction. So did the audio pattern.

The cave mouths sit along a ridge locals avoid.

Of course they do.

Locals always know things before outsiders admit it.

I pack my own bag. This is new. Before I left LA, I made sure to give my things a reality check, taking into consideration everything I learned from this crazy crew.

Maya watches me from the med station as I check batteries, recorder, headlamp, extra socks, water bladder, granola bars, first-aid pouch, gloves, notebook, backup mic.

“Look at you,” she says.

I glance up. “What?”

“You’re prepared.”