I smile to myself, remembering the grizzly bear of a man I met earlier. Gruff and vulgar, I didn’t quite know what to make of him at first. But Mason assured me he was good people. It didn’t take long to see he meant it, either. Not when he so easily accepted my flimsy explanation as to what I’m doing here. Assured me it was no problem if I had to up and leave at a moment’s notice.

I’ve never had an apartment of my own, seeing as I lived with my parents while attending Temple University. But from everything I’ve heard and read, I’m pretty sure most landlords aren’t this lenient about renting to strangers.

Then again, it’s a small-ass town. Maybe shit like leases and background checks don’t matter as much in the eyes of the law here. What the fuck do I know?

I did eventually pull Mason aside to ask what the deal was with Waylon and his uncle, but all he would tell me is that they didn’t talk. Said it was complicated, but not his story to tell. Respecting that, I let it go. Not my business.

Speaking of...

Turning my head slightly, I catch sight of my laptop. One of the few luxury items I brought with me on the road, aside from my phone. I rub my fingers over my throat as I remember everything I discovered earlier.

Finally alone and as settled into someone’s pre-furnished apartment as I could be, I let my curiosity get the best of me, plugged my laptop in, and did some investigating.

At the least, I thought I’d find a link to Izzy’s Facebook. Or even an obituary.

What I didn’t expect was to find news article on top of news article, talking about the “tragic disappearance of 17-year-old Isobel Montgomery.”

Taken from a resort in Florida while on vacation with her family.

Gone without a fucking trace.

Four years. She’s been almost missing for four years now, and presumed dead for just over half of those.

Dead.

The most fucked up part is that her body was never found. No definitive answer as to what happened to her, only speculation. But somehow, it was enough for the FBI to call off the search parties and reel their resources back in.

Inactive, is what they called it—a case that will likely run cold, never to be solved, never to be closed.

I rub my palms over my face. What a cluster-fuck. No wonder Mason can’t even talk about it. This kind of shit is only supposed to happen in the movies, not in real life.

And Waylon...

“He’s just being a nosy fucker.”

I grimace. And what did I do the first chance I got? Exactly what he accused me of.

Nice.