CHAPTER ONE

 

AMBER

​

The thing about being a freelance investigative writer is the hard work that goes before the article. Which is what I'm doing now.

The hard work.

​

I take a bite of my granola bar and shift in the driver's seat, ignoring my thighs that grow more numb by the second. I left Washington D.C. around thirty-six hours and four overnight stops ago. It’s been a pretty but long drive over rolling hills, past expansive farmlands, and through the wide-open spaces and vast skies of the prairies. Now finally, I can reach through the window and almost touch the Sawtooth mountain peaks in the distance.

I’ve driven a long way and it isn’t without purpose.

​

With a run of bad luck on my articles that have been overshadowed, or promised to run and not run, I'm also doing desperate work. My jaw tightens as I remember the sinking feeling of those kill fees and rejections hitting my inbox. This time will be different.

​

It has to be.

​

I need something big. Something showstopping, which is why I'm here, driving in the Idaho mountains to find a small area where women have gone missing. Not just now. For decades. According to The Rumor Mill, that is.

​

The tangled web of conspiracy theories and urban legends about that site is enough to make heads spin. I've learned to sift through the madness, plucking out the gems that spark journalistic interest. Many things on The Rumor Mill are just that. Rumors. The dark conspiracy website is also chock-full of nutters, but I've learned to read past those sorts of comments to the background stories that pop up over time. It's the place where I've discovered golden leads for articles, making me a sought-after freelancer.

​

My fingers drum against the steering wheel as I recall those career highs. The rush of a hot story, the thrill of the chase.

​

Pity my luck hasn't held out.

​

One vindictive boyfriend made sure of that. Unfortunately Jordan was also an influential vindictive boyfriend. The memory of his smug face makes my stomach churn. As does the woman who quickly followed on my heels—Cassandra. Her sickly sweet voice grates in my memory. To say my break up with Jordan was messy, is an understatement.

​

It also left me with a lease and bills that could easily be paid by two people and dual incomes, but now it’s just mine alone. When Jordan left me, he also left behind our condo and all the bills that entailed.

​

Sour bitterness rises in my throat. When he refused to help pay the rent for the rest of the lease period, I may or may not have put sugar in his gas tank. Not my proudest moment, but one that quirks my lips at the memory before my face falls again.

​

It only led to more messiness and Cassandra getting involved, yada yada yada.

​

The end result is that my bank account is down to double figures. Between Jordan and Cassandra and their toxic influence, my publishers who usually buy my articles aren’t, and I need something spectacular to make up the short-fall.

​

My gaze drifts to the map on the passenger seat, studying the area deep in the mountains I’ve circled. If I can find the multiple graves that are supposedly there, I'll have my ‘something spectacular’.

​

Maybe even a Netflix series.

​

A desperate girl can dream. I know it's a long shot, but a long shot is all I have. If there is a chance there are graves here, I also need to bring justice to the missing women who fill those graves. After all, I’m the woman who uncovers stories others overlook or are too afraid to chase.

​

My chin lifts.

​

I'm also a woman willing to camp in the middle of the wilderness for a month living on dehydrated food and black coffee to get my story.

​

A smile tugs at my lips as I think of my unconventional upbringing. Thanks to Mom and Dad and the summers spent camping. We may have been too poor to vacation at resorts or even paid campsites for that matter, but I know how to pitch a tent and survive in the wilderness. As long as I'm close to a water source, I don't need much more.

​

I glance in the rear vision mirror to see my supplies tucked in the tray of my truck. A tent, sleeping bag, plastic boxes filled with clothing and all of my personal items, cooking stove, and boxes of non-perishable food. They’re not just supplies.

​

They’re everything I own.

​

On the bright side, I can relocate anywhere I want. Leave Washington to Jordan and Cassandra. Leave behind a big city full stop. Washington was never comfortable for me. Too many people. Too many cars. Too busy and dirty.

​

I love the wilderness. I love the feeling of being the only being for miles hearing the whisper of the wind through the leaves and the sounds of wildlife in the undergrowth. I relish the deep breath that fills my lungs with the fresh, piney scent from outside.

​

I crank up the music, some gritty alt-rock blaring through the speakers, and enjoy the view as I continue up the winding roads I've been driving along for hours. Outside, the forest is thick and filled with shadows. There's probably no better spot to hide bodies than around here. Only the most determined will ever find them. Hopefully, that’ll be me.

​

The forest breaks, and out of nowhere I come to a town. A sign marks it as Ravenwood. The road curves and I slow to drive along the main street. Rustic storefronts with wood-carved signs line either side… a general store, diner, saloon. Potted flowers overflow from window boxes, bright splashes of color against the faded clapboard facades. It's a slice of Americana, frozen in time half a century ago.

​

It's a lovely country town. It appears well cared for, if not old fashioned, but I guess there's no need for the latest and greatest when people live so remotely. Pedestrians on the street turn to watch my car as I drive along the main road, which makes me feel self-conscious in my beat-up truck loaded with all my worldly possessions.

​

A huge guy with buzzed blond hair and chiseled features, exuding a protective aura, stops to observe. Arms like small tree trunks cross over his barreled chest. He has a steely hard look as though he can see right through me, and as I pass through town, I make the decision not to stop. While lovely, it doesn't feel quite right here. I relax as I leave the curious stares behind and merge onto empty roads again, the wilderness enveloping me once more.

Hours later, I head into another mountain range. The terrain grows more rugged, the trees thinner and scrubby as the elevation climbs. There's no reception on my phone, the bars dwindling to nothing. I'm beginning to get that angst-y thrill of the unknown mingled with apprehension. I check my paper map, not quite sure where I am in relation to my circled target area.

​

I drive up a steep, narrow, twisty road and pass a sign that says Welcome to Willowbrook. The sign is bright red and the Willowbrook is written in an elegant white script. As I pass under the sign, a strange static electric buzz passes over me, causing the fine hairs on my arms to stand on end. I swipe my arm, scattering the strange sensation.

​

I continue driving for a while, not seeing any sign of the town past the heavy forest lining the road, but when I crest a small hill I spot the main street through the foliage. Quaint clapboard buildings, a wide main street lined with trees and a steepled church come into view.

​

I pull onto the side of the road and pause, taking it all in while the engine rumbles underneath me. It looks quaint, with its old fashioned shops and homes. Everything is neat and well-maintained with an otherworldly charm. I see a diner with a big neon sign. Sally's Diner.

​

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven't eaten a real meal in hours. My mouth waters at the promise of the diner's fare, but I shake my head. I won't stop. I don't want anyone to know I'm here. Or why. Sneak in and sneak out is my mantra, especially in an area where I’m looking for graves. Who knows what the hell kind of people live out here. They might all be in on a big secret. I might end up in a grave myself. All around me is the wilderness. Anything could happen out here and not a soul in the rest of America would know.

​

I'll have to contend with the supplies I've brought with me—protein bars, beef jerky, and freeze-dried camp meals. At least I have my fishing gear, and I might catch a fish for dinner if I’m lucky enough to find a creek.

​

Resigned, I backtrack and take an exit onto a narrow dirt fire-track which winds deeper into the wilderness, away from Willowbrook's idyllic veneer. The truck jostles over the rutted path as I drive for miles, going as far as the track will allow me. Until low-hanging branches scratch the paintwork and I can go no further.

​

I kill the engine, letting the silence of the forest envelop me. Taking a deep breath of the pine-scented air, I grab my gear from the truck bed and set about making camp between the gigantic, ancient tree trunks. Once I have my tent erected and water set to boil on the camp stove, I open my map and check my location. As far as I can tell from my markings, I'm in the right area. Or close enough to it that I might actually have a chance of finding the graves and the lives stolen to fill them.

​

READ WOLF HOPE TODAY...