Chapter 7
Hadley Dawkins
The thick stretch of woods between Martin Cox's property and the festival grounds swallowed sound in a way that heightened Hadley’s awareness.
The shadows pooled unnaturally between the trees, as if the ancient roots were attempting to crawl their way out of the ground.
The deeper she advanced, the more the air became charged with something she couldn't name yet somehow still recognized from childhood nightmares.
A rare ray of sunlight penetrated the canopy, catching on a spider's web stretched between two branches.
The delicate structure glimmered momentarily before vanishing as a cloud passed overhead.
The trees seemed to exhale around her, branches complaining about the wind she barely felt against her skin anymore
Hadley finally came to a stop when she caught sight of the festival grounds.
Workers hammered the frames of wooden booths into place, their rhythmic pounding giving life to an almost ambivalent heartbeat.
Strings of unlit bulbs were being strung between poles, and a small Ferris wheel was under construction, its skeletal frame rising against the sky.
The scene should have been cheerful, preparations for a community celebration, yet she got the sense that they were just going through the motions.
Hadley remained in place, wondering if this spot was where the abductor stood that night. Had he chosen Missy, or had he merely waited for any young woman to stray too far alone?
Unable to answer her own questions just yet, Hadley drew her phone from her pocket. She pulled up the digital copy of Missy's case file.
According to statements from Richie McCarthy and Veronica Lane, Missy wandered away from their group a little after ten that night.
They had confessed to stealing the moonshine and drinking throughout the evening, even admitting that some of their close friends hadn’t been able to join them in their little crime spree.
The subsequent search was concentrated in these woods after Veronica stated she noticed Missy disappear behind the ring-toss booth.
Hadley followed the trail the dogs found, only to retrace some of the path.
The dogs eventually picked up Missy’s scent again, heading east. The ground sloped gently downward before leveling into a small clearing.
This was where Martin Cox had found the cell phone, its screen cracked but still powered on.
Hadley studied the immediate area thoroughly.
A year of seasonal changes had erased any physical evidence, but she could visualize the scene as it would have been that night.
The forensic team had also found a discarded napkin, confirmed by DNA to be Missy's.
Given that the substance came back as urine, they were left to believe she had sought privacy to relieve herself.
Why walk so far into the woods to do so?
Unless she had been abducted closer to the festival. Had she been carried? Dragged? Had the napkin and phone been clutched in her hands, only to be released in a final moment of panic?
The search dogs had picked up Missy's scent from this clearing, following it due east through the woods until it abruptly ended at a gravel access road that ran alongside the Cox property.
This detail—buried in paragraph seventeen of the sheriff's report—had captured Hadley's attention immediately.
The scent trail ending at such a location suggested Missy had been transported elsewhere by vehicle… an access point known only to locals.
Hadley brushed some dirt from her jeans as she mentally overlaid the geographical profiles of the eight disappearances. Three had last been seen at or near the Harvest Festival. Two had vanished while walking home along natural routes that skirted these same woods.
Someone was hunting here.
Someone who knew these woods, these roads, the rhythms of this community. Someone patient enough to wait for the perfect opportunity. Someone who understood that the festival's noise and confusion provided ideal cover. And someone clever enough to use local superstition as camouflage.
Hadley's thoughts were interrupted by the distant rumble of an engine. A vehicle was approaching on the access road. She tensed, shifting her weight to remain partially concealed behind a broad oak trunk.
The sound grew louder, and through the trees, she caught glimpses of a light blue pickup truck moving slowly along the gravel road.
It wasn't speeding or driving erratically—just advancing at an unhurried pace.
The driver slowed further as it approached the section of road closest to where she stood, its engine idling with a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the earth beneath her feet.
Hadley stepped out from behind the tree, causing the driver to immediately brake. A young man in his early twenties with sandy blond hair rolled down the window. Without hesitation, he leaned out with a smile.
“Need a lift?” he called, his voice carrying easily through the quiet woods. “These back roads can be pretty rough if you're on foot. Are you working the festival?”
Hadley maintained enough distance to react if necessary, though the young man's open expression didn't trigger any immediate alarm.
“I appreciate the offer, but I'm fine,” Hadley replied, reaching for her badge. She unclipped it from her belt and held it up, allowing the metal to catch the light. “Detective Hadley Dawkins, Arkansas State Police.”
The young man's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but recognition quickly followed. He straightened in his seat, adjusting his posture as if suddenly aware he was under scrutiny.
“I heard about you.”
“Let me guess,” Hadley offered up with a smile. She’d get more information with honey rather than vinegar. She had also observed his attire, which consisted of a black button-down dress shirt and a dark grey tie that he’d already loosened. “You’re coming from Emanuel Telfort’s viewing.”
“That’s right. I'm Ty Hobbs,” he offered, extending his hand through the window. “And you’re very good at your job. I’m friends with his son, Kalen. The funeral is this afternoon, but we’re harvesting one of the fields today. I promised my uncle that I would help out for a few hours before then.”
Hadley moved forward to accept the handshake. His grip was firm but not aggressive, his palm warm and dry against hers.
“I didn’t realize that Mr. Telfort had a son. I’m sorry for his loss.”
“Mr. Telfort was a good man.” Ty settled back into his seat. “He taught me a lot about the land.”
Ty peered over her shoulder with interest, his gaze lingering on the dense trees behind her. Though he was older than Missy, this was Whistlerun. Everyone was familiar with one another.
“You already know that I'm investigating Missy Claymont's disappearance,” Hadley said, deliberately redirecting the conversation toward the local folklore. "Do you believe in the Threshing Man, Ty?"
The question hung between them. Ty tugged at his collar as if it had suddenly tightened around his throat despite being unbuttoned.
“I don't know,” Ty reluctantly admitted. “I mean, most days it sounds crazy, right? Some tall faceless thing that takes people during the harvesting season?”
Ty laughed, a short, tense sound filled with unease.
“It's difficult not to imagine there is some truth to it when it keeps happening.”
“When did it happen last?” Hadley asked, curious as to what his answer might be. “Do you know?”
“I guess not off the top of my head,” Ty replied with a frown.
Hadley had known he wouldn’t be able to name the last abduction, because it had been years prior.
Memory was a fickle thing. “I mean, my dad used to talk about it all the time.
Said he'd seen things in the cornfields at night.
Movements that weren't the wind. You know, those kinds of things.”
The clouds parted, allowing the sun to break through. Ty raised a hand to cover his eyes, an automatic gesture without his baseball cap. At least, Hadley pictured him as the type to wear one.
“I do hope you find Missy. She was a sweet girl.” Ty shifted so that his elbow rested on the door to keep his hand propped up for shade. “She worked part-time at the diner during her summer break.”
Hadley noted the way he spoke about Missy in the past tense, as if he'd already accepted she wouldn't be coming back. That wasn't unusual in cases like this. After a year, hope tended to fade even among the most optimistic.
“You're Greta Dawkins' daughter, aren't you?”
Hadley's shoulders stiffened, and she gritted her teeth reflexively at the mention of her mother's name. The familiar acid burn returned to her chest, and she chided herself for not grabbing one of the bottles of antacid from her glove compartment.
“Yes,” Hadley confirmed, her voice deliberately even. “I am.”
“Well, now I'm the one sorry for your loss.” Ty rubbed his forehead. “I used to cut her lawn. Every other Thursday. She was a nice lady, always setting out a pitcher of lemonade for me on the porch railing. I still swing by every now and then, though not as often as I’d like. Figured it was the respectful thing to do until the property sells, but I never see a sign in the yard.”
Hadley hadn't been back to her childhood home since she left town twelve years ago. The thought of someone else taking care of it after her mother’s death brought a mix of emotions, from gratitude to guilt.
“I didn’t realize…” Hadley’s voice trailed off, the words creating a strange sensation on her tongue. Ownership implied a connection she'd spent years trying to sever. “I’ll pay you for your work.”
“No need,” Ty insisted, waving off her offer with a dismissive gesture. A cloud must have drifted overhead again, because the sunlight dimmed enough for him to lower his arm. “It's not much trouble.”
The image of her mother, a woman who'd grown increasingly bitter and withdrawn after Mason's arrest, leaving lemonade out for a neighborhood boy, struck Hadley as very contradictory. The Greta Dawkins she remembered had little kindness left to offer after Mason was found guilty.
“Are you planning to sell?”
Ty’s voice brought Hadley back to the present, but she stepped back from the truck. Personal conversations about her mother or childhood always gave her skin the sensation of being too tight.
“Ty, I appreciate what you've done for the property. I’ll make sure to stop by the bank and take out some money. If I don’t see you around town, I’ll leave an envelope of cash inside the screen door.”
Ty seemed to understand he'd crossed some invisible line.
“Well, if you need anything else done at the house, let me know,” Ty said as he shifted the gear into drive. “Take care.”
Ty pulled away, the truck’s tires kicking up a bit of dust before the sound of the engine faded in the distance. Soon, all that was left were the caws of some crows sitting in the surrounding trees.
She hadn't answered his question about selling the house because she didn't have a simple answer. The truth was far too complex, too revealing of her internal conflicts to share with a virtual stranger.
In the years following her mother's death, Hadley had paid the property taxes and homeowners’ insurance, but she had never returned to her childhood home.
Since the house was off the beaten path and not tucked into one of the older neighborhoods, it had never occurred to her to maintain the lawn over the years.
She'd convinced herself it was practical to keep it. After all, real estate was an investment, even out in the sticks. But in her most honest moments, she acknowledged the real reason.
The house was for Mason.
Not now, but someday.
When he completed his thirty-year sentence.
Mason would need somewhere to go after his release. Somewhere familiar, not that those in Whistlerun would welcome him with open arms.
In an odd way, she figured keeping the house was a form of penance, her private atonement for the testimony that had sent him away. Maybe it was even a silent promise to her brother that she hadn't completely abandoned him to the system, even if she couldn't bring herself to visit.
What would Mason be like if he hadn’t gone to prison? Would he have grown into someone considerate like Ty, who maintained a dead neighbor's lawn out of respect? Had prison stripped away whatever goodness might have developed in him?
These questions haunted her during quiet moments when her defenses were down. She'd testified to what she'd witnessed that night, and the former sheriff had made it so she was confident in her recollection back then.
But in the twenty years since, doubt had crept in like a slow poison.
Another thought pushed itself in as the dust from Ty’s tires settled on the ground around her. This old dirt and gravel road led to many secluded properties, with enough land to easily conceal secrets, even ones as grim as buried bodies.