Chapter 3 Louise
LOUISE
We turned our attention back to the mystery truck.
“Flash your lights or something,” Miles said. “Those work, right?”
“One does.”
He rolled his eyes.
“What if it’s not them?” I asked.
“Then maybe I can convince whoever it is into letting me wait in a car with a working heater.”
“I don’t think Southern hospitality stretches this far into the woods.”
“If this isn’t them, let’s go. They’ll figure out where they’re supposed to be. I’m not exactly loving being here. It’s creepy as hell.”
The truck crossed the road, the headlights flashing across the cab. The truck rolled to a stop next to us, it’s tires crunching over frozen gravel. Our windows rolled down simultaneously, mine a bit slower due to the hand crank.
A gust of sleet whipped through the opening and slapped against my face. It hit like icy needles. I yanked my scarf higher, breathing through wool as the cold settled into my bones.
“Louise Sloane?” the driver asked.
I nodded. “Austin Kemp?”
He gave a single nod.
Austin wasn’t what I expected. Based on our short phone call, I’d pictured someone older—maybe balding, beer-bellied, with an anchor tattoo and a cigarette tucked behind one ear.
What I got was a rugged, thirty-something country boy with a strong jaw and sharp blue eyes.
A John Deere cap was pulled low over messy brown hair, his coat dusted in sleet.
He looked like someone who could gut a deer and quote the Bible in the same breath.
“Sorry we’re late,” he said. “Snow’s already falling down in Ponco.”
Ponco—our hometown three hours east. Always first to catch a cold front.
“No worries,” I said. “This is Miles Baker.”
The men nodded to each other.
Austin leaned back and gestured toward the passenger seat. “And this is Margie Cruz.”
A marshmallow-shaped figure leaned forward.
Her white ski coat sparkled under the headlights, topped with a matching beanie.
Glossy blonde curls spilled from beneath her hat, framing a flawless face and a blinding white smile.
A pink scarf wrapped around her neck, coordinated with her glittery nails.
She wiggled her fingers in a delicate wave.
She looked barely older than Ansel. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. All styled and manicured like she was heading to a bachelorette party instead of a missing persons search.
I’d bet my one working headlight the girl didn’t stress eat.
I wondered if she and Austin were a couple. Ken and Barbie, lending their precious time and energy to search for a missing girl.
Miles and me? We were more like Larry and Floyd. I’d be Floyd.
My gaze drifted to the reflection of my uneven bangs in the rearview. Definitely Floyd.
Miles and I didn’t know them, despite growing up in the same small town. Maybe that’s because I rarely left my apartment. Work, groceries, gas, and the liquor store—which doubled as all three some weeks.
Rumor was Austin had been military—special forces, maybe—gone half the year. One divorce, no kids. Margie was the youth pastor’s daughter. Worked part-time at her mom’s salon. She wasn’t wearing gloves.
Snow flurried in the wind, catching the headlights like ash. In the distance, a crow called once, then fell silent.
Four strangers. Two trucks. One missing girl.
And time slipping away into the dark.
“Well, hop in,” I said, eager to get this show on the road.
Windows rolled up with a whine.
“She’s hot,” Miles said, watching Margie swing out of the truck in her marshmallow gear.
“She’s your type,” I replied, reaching back to brush debris off the backseat.
“Yeah. Hot.”
“No. Blonde and barely legal.”
The back door creaked open, ushering in a blast of frigid air—and the cloying scent of vanilla perfume. Margie climbed in, sniffed, and picked invisible lint off the seat before carefully settling in.
I cleared my throat. “Hey Austin, just toss our bags behind your seat.”
Without a word, Austin did as asked, then climbed in beside her, his tool-heavy backpack thudding to the floor between his boots. I couldn’t help but notice how much space he took up compared to her. Like a tree sitting next to a sapling.
“Damn, it’s cold,” he muttered, his breath fogging the air before the door slammed shut.
No one spoke as I turned the key. Ansel coughed and stalled.
Once.
Twice.
My cheeks flushed. I forced a smile. “Ha-ha. He’s moody in the cold.”
“Not the only one,” Miles grumbled.
Margie was staring out the window, her gloved hands wrapped around her backpack like a life preserver.
Finally, we pulled onto the narrow dirt road.
As the tires rolled over frozen ruts, the woods seemed to press closer.
The woods had dimmed, with barely enough light to see past the tree line.
It would be completely dark in ten minutes.
There’d been an instant shift in energy the moment we started driving.
Anticipation. Anxiety. Fear. In Miles’s case, pure disdain for being there.
The temperature had dropped another five degrees. My breath came out in plumes. Up ahead, snowflakes danced in the beam of the headlights, slow and hypnotic.
“So,” I said, trying to cut the tension, “thanks again for coming. We need all the help we can get.”
Margie smiled faintly at my reflection in the rearview. “Thanks for organizing the effort from Ponco. Oh, that reminds me, we should all exchange phone numbers.”
We did, then, I said, “Organizing is a bit of a stretch.”
“Well, it’s the effort that counts. When I saw the signup sheet, there was no question I was going,” she said cheerfully.
“The signup sheet had stickers on it,” Miles muttered.
“Hey, I wanted to catch people’s attention,” I said, half-defensive.
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“Towering Pines Inn. We came up yesterday.”
“We’re there too,” she said. “Did you join yesterday’s search?”
“I did. Miles watched Netflix.”
He turned around, wagging a finger. “Never eat fish tacos from a gas station.”
Margie wrinkled her nose.
I laughed, watching her in the mirror—but my gaze drifted to Austin. He was stone-still, watching the trees slipping past. A man of few words, and somehow… less than comfortable. Something about him made my shoulders twitch.
“It was the first organized search, right?” Margie asked, her voice softer.
“Right.” Five days after Kara was reported missing. “Nothing turned up.”
“Where did you search?”
“A field past the river campsites.”
At the T in the road, I braked and looked at Miles.
“Take a right,” he said, scrolling the map.
The SUV veered onto a thinner, less-traveled road. Trees arched overhead like bony fingers. The flurries picked up, tapping the windshield in rhythmic clicks. The sleet had returned—hard, fast, sharp. It pinged off the roof like claws.
The woods grew darker the deeper we went. Snow blurred the branches. No houses. No mailboxes. No lights.
Just us.
And whatever waited at the end of the road.