The festival is marked by a red pin in a big white space. I zoom in and out, looking for a location until I find it. South, just like Melody said. I take a picture of the location with my phone.

Next, I search for Melody and pull up her profile. There are no new status updates since we landed. I go back to the photo and click on the tags. Everyone who has checked into the festival on Facebook is there. I scroll down. One picture catches my eye. Eight women grouped together with the caption, New friends from faraway places. Melody’s name is among them.

Bingo.

I’m this close to finding Melody and getting out of this icebox to return home.

The cashier is still out back. I return to the table, grab my bag and let the officers know I’m using the bathroom.

‘Hey, thanks for your phone,’ I call out, but there’s no answer. I peek around the counter and see a storeroom. I slip behind the counter. ‘Here’s your phone back,’ I say, walking into the large storage space. Still, no answer.

The back door’s ajar and I hear a rustle of boxes outside. I walk through, wrapping my jacket around me tight. I see a streak of pink by the dumpster. The cashier is throwing a cardboard box into a large heap, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

She’s surprised to see me there.

‘Are the buses still running?’ I ask, giving back her phone. ‘South?’

She looks at her watch. ‘Last one going south to Homer in, like, three minutes. Are you leaving now? What about the police?’

‘Where from?’ I ask, ignoring her questions. Three minutes. If I go now, I can get to Melody after all. No waiting for my father. The thought of the long drive back with him, forced to talk to him, no way to get home, is too much. And Jaxon too. He lied to me. He knows everything. How can he explain himself? Pretending to love wolves while his wannabe dad kills them. The whole thing is a bad joke.

The cashier looks at me for a moment, takes another drag on her cigarette, smiles slightly like she would do the same if she could, and points to the road just after the car park. ‘Better run.’

I make it to the road when I hear the roar of a bus. I run alongside it until it pulls into the bus stop a hundred metres away, letting out two people. I’m panting by the time I get on. I show the driver the picture of the map I took on my phone. He says the last stop is about a twenty-minute drive from the festival location. It will have to do. I’m hoping someone will get my message. Or I can find a ride from there; they can’t all be serial killers.