23. Wren #2
I spend the next hour in a state of frantic, clinical observation.
My brain, usually so good at compartmentalizing the absurd, is spinning out a thousand different scenarios, each one worse than the last. I pull up the Aethelgard contract again, my eyes scanning the fine print with the desperation of a captive looking for a loose stone.
It’s all there, in black and white. The production fee—that initial fifty-thousand-dollar lifeline—is essentially a kill fee for the lodge’s privacy.
Once that money hits my account, they have the right to film anywhere on the deeded property, and they have the right to shadow any personnel or residents who appear in the initial promotional material or relevant social media threads.
Rowan isn’t an employee. He isn’t a resident.
But in the eyes of a media lawyer, he’s the Mystery Man of Eagle Crest. He’s the star of the show they just bought, and I’m the one who handed them the keys to his front door.
I try to find a clause about participant consent, but the language is slick.
They aren’t asking for his permission to be a character; they’re documenting a public interest event on private land where I’ve already granted them full access.
The distinction between the two payments is the only thing keeping me from a complete atmospheric collapse.
The fifty thousand is a flat fee for access and footage.
It’s mine regardless of whether they find a monster or a mountain goat.
But the half-million? The life-changing, debt-erasing, legacy-securing half-million is the Development Option.
They’ll only pay that once they get their proof.
It’s a bounty. I’ve put a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bounty on the head of the man who just saved a life at my request.
I stand up and pace the small office, my socks sliding on the polished wood.
I need to think like a producer. If Sarah Vance is as good as her résumé suggests, she isn’t going to be satisfied with blurry footprints.
She’s going to want the Subject Prime reveal.
She’s going to want to see him change. She’s going to want to know how a man of that size moves through a forest without being seen. She’s going to want to see him with me.
The thought makes my stomach turn. Every look we’ve shared, every quiet moment in his house with the oversized chairs, every second of tension in the trail shelter…
it all feels like a vulnerability they can exploit.
They’ll see the way I look at him. They’ll see that he isn’t just a cryptid; he’s a man who has lived a very long, very lonely life, and they’ll strip that away for a three-episode limited series.
I walk to the window and press my forehead against the cool glass.
The sun is higher now, casting long, pale shadows across the gravel lot.
In a few hours, Marge will be in the kitchen, Walt will be checking the generators, and the first of the morning hikers will be asking about the Bigfoot from the news.
My life is about to become a very expensive, very public cage.
I start a list on a yellow legal pad, my handwriting jagged and tight. 1. Move the trail cameras. 2. Establish a ‘no-go’ zone for the crew based on ‘dangerous terrain.’ 3. Give Rowan a way to stay in the deep timber. 4. Fake a sighting on the South Ridge.
The fourth point is the most important. If I can convince them he’s miles away from the lodge, I can keep them busy.
I can feed them the curated encounters I promised myself I’d use.
I can spend my days leading a high-end film crew on a wild goose chase through the roughest parts of the Cascades, while Rowan stays safe in his territory.
It’s a lie, but it’s one meant to protect.
It’s the kind of lie my family has been telling for a hundred years, just updated for a 4K resolution world.
But the dread won’t leave. It’s sitting right behind my breastbone, cold and heavy.
Because Sarah Vance didn’t just mention the rescue.
She mentioned the Jones lecture. They’ve done their homework.
They aren’t just following a myth; they’re following a trail of breadcrumbs I left behind when I was too busy being clever to be careful.
They know he exists in human form. They know he’s here.
I hear the low rumble of a truck engine in the distance.
The first delivery of the day, or perhaps the vanguard of the media circus.
I close the legal pad and shove it into the bottom drawer of the desk, locking it with a sharp click.
I can’t go to Rowan yet. If I go to him now, I’ll tell him everything, and I’ll watch the light go out of his eyes when he realizes I’m just another human who saw a profit margin instead of a person.
I need to have the lie ready first. I need to be able to tell him I have it under control.
I look at the phone one last time. No more texts.
He’s likely asleep or merged back into the silence of the trees, unaware that the world is coming for him with a signed contract and a thermal lens.
I turn off the office light, leaving the room to the gray, indifferent morning.
I saved the lodge, but as I walk toward the stairs, the weight of the key in my pocket feels like a brand.
I’m a Cassidy, and I’ve just done what Cassidys do best: I’ve protected the land by selling the truth.
I just hope that this time, the truth doesn’t decide to leave me behind in the wreckage.