Chapter 3 #2
Monitors line the dark walls, displaying maps, thermal imaging, and drone footage. Equipment is organized with obsessive precision—labeled bins, mounted headsets, charging stations. One section looks almost medical. Another looks capable of tracking extraterrestrials.
Opposite the monitors is a camel-colored leather couch that looks as if someone’s spent long nights curled into one corner with a blanket and a laptop.
The leather is softened in the middle, one arm slightly worn darker than the other, a knit throw tossed over the back in a way that feels too accidental to be staged.
It cuts through the sterile efficiency of the rest of the Machine with startling softness.
String lights add to the ambiance, making it the perfect spot for a late-night recording session when I get there.
Above it, a large window frames an almost-fake-looking view of the high desert.
“This is sick,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Miles lights up.
And I mean fully lights up.
“Oh, um, thank you,” he says, then begins talking faster.
“We’ve spent years building it out. We call it the Mystery Machine.
You know, like Scooby Doo. Most of the thermal systems are modified commercial rigs because the military-grade ones are impossible to source legally, which, to be clear, we do not attempt to do illegally either—”
“Miles,” Maya says.
“Right. Anyway.” He gestures vaguely. “We optimized for mobility and environmental adaptability. There’s redundancy in most major systems because field failure rates increase significantly in remote terrain, especially with temperature fluctuation, and—”
He stops. Like he just became aware he’s rambling.
“…I’m doing too much right now, aren’t I?”
“A little,” Jax says, snickering.
I should find it annoying. Instead, something close to amusement flickers in me.
“It’s fine,” I say, setting my bag down. “I like passionate people.”
The second the words leave my mouth, something shifts.
Tiny. Almost invisible.
Miles clears his throat and looks away first.
Interesting.
Taylor notices, too, because her brows scrunch, and her grin turns feral.
“Let me show you your bunk, girl.” Taylor grabs my overnight bag before I can protest and disappears deeper into the RV. “It’s only a little haunted.”
“It’s not haunted,” Miles calls from the front.
“You don’t know that,” Taylor yells back.
The middle section of the Mystery Machine narrows into a long aisle lined with bunks on either side—three stacked into the wall to the left, three to the right.
Taylor gestures proudly. “Welcome to your bedroom.”
It’s all the most unconventional kind of cozy.
It’s not luxurious—no one is confusing this for a boutique hotel.
But every bunk has clearly been claimed and transformed into something personal, something lived in.
Soft lighting strips run beneath the frames, casting everything in warm amber instead of harsh white.
Curtains hang over each opening for privacy, clipped back for now so I can see inside.
The top left bunk is unmistakably Taylor’s. Color explodes out of it—patterned blankets, mismatched pillows, crystals and a tiny disco ball hanging from command hooks, a faded bandana tied around the base of a reading light. Polaroids and postcards are taped to the wall.
“This feels like your vibe,” I say.
“You’re picking up what I’m putting down, then?” She smiles.
Under it, the middle bunk is neat in a way that makes sense. Maya’s, obviously. Neutral blanket. A tidy stack of books on a corner shelf. Chargers wrapped with Velcro ties.
Taylor points upward as if gesturing to another planet, not five inches above her head. “That’s you. Right across from me!”
I look up.
My bunk sits on the top right, tucked close to the ceiling with a small ladder bolted into the wall beside it. There’s fresh bedding folded neatly inside—dark green comforter, soft cream blanket, actual pillows instead of sad travel ones.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “That’s… nicer than expected.”
Taylor grins. “People always think this thing is gonna feel sad and crunchy. But we live here almost all year. We’re not trying to suffer.”
I climb up two rungs of the ladder, peeking inside.
It’s smaller than my bed at home, obviously, but once I’m in it feels cocoon-like.
The walls are lined with soft fabric panels instead of exposed RV siding, and someone added a tiny battery-powered lantern hanging from a hook.
There’s a charging port. A little net for books or headphones.
Enough room to stretch out without feeling trapped.
“It’s kinda cute,” I admit.
“Long nights hit different when you’ve got emotional support blankets.”
I glance down the aisle. “Who’s below me?”
“Miles.”
Of course he is.
I lean over, looking into the bunk beneath mine.
To my surprise, it’s almost normal. Navy blanket. One decent pillow. Books shoved into a side pocket alongside weatherproof notebooks and what appears to be three different field guides. There’s a tiny clip-on fan mounted beside the bed and four charging cables organized with alarming precision.
And taped neatly to the wall, a tiny photo strip. I can’t make out details from here. Just flashes of two smiling adults with dark hair and two boys, the smaller one looking suspiciously like a young Miles.
I try to ignore the shift in my chest.
“Wow,” I say, my tone light as I climb back down. “He really does live like a camp counselor.”
Taylor laughs. “Oh, for sure. You should see his storage bins. He labels everything.”
“That tracks.”
“He also cooks.”
“That’s more surprising.”
“He made us homemade chicken parm in the middle of Washington once,” she says reverently. “Changed my life.”
“In here?” I ask incredulously.
“Yep! His competencies are surprisingly diverse,” she agrees. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
I laugh. “Whose bunk is under Miles’s?”
“Owen’s. He’s Miles’s older brother. He left us to work at Area 51, but my intuition tells me he’ll come back around.”
“Got it,” I nod and look at the last bunk, which is clearly Jax’s. Disheveled blankets spill out alongside a few protein bar wrappers. “And that’s Jax?” I ask.
“Yeah, he had to be on a ground-level bunk. He kept rolling around and falling out of the top one,” Taylor laughs.
I glance around the narrow aisle again, at the curtains and blankets and tiny pieces of personality carved into each space. It doesn’t feel temporary.
That’s what catches me off guard.
This isn’t a gimmick or some thrown-together road trip setup. These people have built a life inside this thing. Messy and cramped and strange, but real.
“You guys sleep in here all the time?” I ask.
“Most of the time,” Taylor says, leaning against the ladder.
“Shower here, too. It’s tiny, I know. If we’re out for a while, we’ll spring for cheap hotels or truck-stop showers from time to time so nobody murders each other.
We’ll also take time off between cases, but we’ve been busy.
Before we started on Bigfoot, we were helping with a cold missing-person case in the Midwest—the police had given up on it years ago.
We did find them, by the way. Cult.” She shrugs, as if this is all normal ‘getting to know you’ chatter.
“Then there were those Bigfoot sightings, also in Ohio, so that’s why we prioritized this next.
So anyway, this is our home base, no matter what state we’re in or what case we’re on. ” She pauses. “Do you like camping?”
“Camping?” I repeat weakly.
“You’ll survive, babe.” She winks.
“That confidence feels unfounded.”
Taylor grins. “You’re softer than I expected.”
“I’m from LA.”
“Well, now you’re here.” She spreads her arms dramatically toward the desert outside. “Embrace it!”
I laugh despite myself and look back at the bunks one more time. At the softness tucked into the middle of all this roughness. At the evidence of people making space for themselves out here. It feels… comfortable.
Taylor takes her seat at the wheel and we’re off. I freeze, unsure of where to sit, like the new kid on the first day of school. I go for the seat closest to me, and Maya sits next to me soon after. Jax and Miles are at the desks opposite us, headphones on.
“I know you’ve given me the basics over the phone, but now that I’m here, can you just take me through things again?” I ask Maya, looking to get my bearings.
She smiles. Maya is beautiful in an untouched way that’s rare in LA.
Soft, rounded cheeks and a warm bronze complexion, sprinkled with a few freckles from time spent outside.
Her dark brown-black hair is short but still pulls back into a ponytail—a thick one.
I know women who would kill for hair like hers.
She looks at me with the kind of eyes that miss nothing and make people feel seen. “Sure. Big picture first?”
“Please.”
“Okay. Well, we work one case or topic at a time. And you should know that we don't go places randomly.”
That surprises me. “You don't?”
She snorts. “No. We follow patterns. The internet thinks Bigfoot hunters just wander around the woods yelling.”
“Which we do sometimes,” Jax says, his eyes fixed on his editing.
Maya throws a pretzel at him.
“We start with reports. Historical sightings, indigenous stories, wildlife databases, game camera activity, migration patterns.”
“Migration patterns?”
She nods.
“Water and food sources move. Deer move. Elk move. Bears move. If something large and intelligent existed, we'd expect it to move seasonally too. Water access, temperatures, vegetation, prey.”
“So… you build maps?”
“Exactly.”
Maya gestures to Miles, who's currently staring at six monitors as if he were a park ranger hired at NASA.
“Miles takes decades of reports and overlays them. Sightings. Elevation. Water sources. Caves. Old logging roads. Places people disappear. Places they don't.”
I blink. “That's… actually kind of impressive.”
“Don't tell him that.”
I laugh. “So what are we looking for?”