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I sling my camera bag over my shoulder and head toward the bar anyway because if I’m going to get answers, alcohol usually helps loosen people up.

The Devil’s Brew smells like whiskey, cedar, and testosterone.

A few conversations die the second I walk in.

I make my way to the bar slowly, feeling eyes follow me the entire time. Most aren’t hostile exactly. Curious more than anything.

Like they’re trying to figure out what kind of trouble just walked into town.

A blonde bartender with tattoos winding down both arms strolls over and sets a napkin in front of me. “What’ll it be?”

“Something strong.”

Her mouth twitches. “Tourist?”

“Journalist.”

That earns me a look.

Not warm.

Not welcoming.

Interesting.

“What are you writing about?” she asks casually.

“Missing hikers.”

The reaction is instant.

The man beside me stills halfway through lifting his beer.

Someone farther down the bar mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

The room doesn’t go silent completely, but it gets close enough that I notice.

I lean against the bar, pretending not to notice the shift. “That a sensitive subject around here?”

The bartender sets a whiskey glass in front of me a little harder than necessary. “Depends who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

“That’s your first mistake.”

I almost smile at that.

Almost.

Before I can answer, another voice cuts in behind me.

“You’re wasting your time.”

Low.

Rough.

Male.