Chapter 2: Aubrey’s Arrival

On Valentine’s Day afternoon, I brought the second woman to Mr. Knox.

It was one of those February days so clear and cold your breath fogs, but the sunlight fools you into thinking things are softer than they are. My boots still wore last summer’s dust. Valentine’s always brought strange energy to the mountains—couples with big dreams, loners with heavy hearts. This year, it was Aubrey.

Her name was Aubrey. Short hair, sun-warmed skin, and oversized round glasses.

She could’ve been the poster girl for a 1970s summer camp—big glasses, wild grin, hair that looked sun-bleached from too many afternoons at the lake. Her laughter bubbled up out of nowhere, and her bag hung slung over her shoulder, like she was always ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

Before Aubrey, there’d been Natalie—quiet, anxious, always checking her phone and glancing over her shoulder as we climbed. She barely spoke, and when she did, her words came out clipped and cautious. Aubrey was the opposite—genuinely cheerful, just like her name.

Even her voice had a melody, a lilt that could almost make you forget how sharp the rocks were underfoot.

The sun beat down, making the wildflowers smell sweet and the dust cling to our ankles. Somewhere, a hawk screeched, and Aubrey spun around to spot it, nearly tripping on a root.

She peppered me with questions—about the Yelp reviews, the weird striped river rocks, even the rusted mailbox we passed. Every answer made her eyes light up like a kid at a science fair.

She walked as if she were dancing, light on her feet, skipping and twirling.

I caught myself smiling, watching her spin in the dappled sunlight, arms out. She moved like the world couldn’t touch her, even as gravel skittered away under her sneakers.

To be honest, I didn’t really know why I was bringing her to see Mr. Knox, either.

Some folks would say I was just doing my job—taking guests where they wanted to go. But it was more complicated. I’d learned not to ask too many questions about Mr. Knox or the women he wanted to see. Maybe that was cowardice. Or maybe it’s just the cost of living somewhere nobody else cares to remember.

I’d had the same question yesterday, but didn’t think much of it. Only by noon today did I realize Natalie, the woman I’d brought yesterday, hadn’t come back.

I kept checking my phone, hoping for a text or a call. I told myself she’d just gone for a long hike, but the knot in my stomach said otherwise. In a town this small, people don’t just vanish for a day without someone noticing.

In other words, Natalie had spent the night with Mr. Knox at the campsite.

It didn’t make sense, but I told myself it was fine. She was an adult, right? But even as I told myself that, I kept replaying the way she’d looked when I left her there—tired, distracted, her eyes darting everywhere but at me.

No one else was there; for the past six months, that place had been Mr. Knox’s private getaway.

Mr. Knox liked his privacy—no cell service, no neighbors, no prying eyes. Folks said he’d made his money out west, then came back to build himself a fortress in the wild. Only a handful of us ever saw the inside of that camp.

Maybe I was bringing Aubrey over to fetch Natalie back, or at least that’s what I told myself.

I practiced what I’d say if Natalie looked tired or asked for help. But the truth was, I was just following orders—Ms. Dana’s, Mr. Knox’s, whoever handed me cash or a list of requests.

My mind was somewhere else. What should have been a two-hour hike took three, because Aubrey’s curiosity kept slowing us down. Only when the sun was about to set did we finally arrive.

We stopped for photos, for wildflowers, for a rusted horseshoe half-buried in the dirt. Every detour made my nerves buzz. The shadows stretched longer across the trail, and I kept glancing at my watch, thinking about what might be waiting at the end.

Mushroom Rock—a strange wonder hidden deep in the mountains.

There are plenty of places named for what they look like out here, but Mushroom Rock really does jut from the slope like some massive, stone toadstool. Legend says some Native kids used to come up here and paint symbols on the underside, but I’ve never seen them myself. The air always feels a little different up top—thinner, sharper, like it’s holding its breath.

It juts out from the hillside like a giant flat-topped mushroom, hanging a thousand feet above the valley, hence the name.

Standing on its edge, you can see every winding ribbon of the river below, the whole world stretched out like a patchwork quilt. Sometimes hawks drift on the thermals, screeching, and it’s so quiet you hear your own heartbeat.

The endless ridges seem to open up a balcony here, the view sweeping in three directions, sunlight pouring in, ancient oaks and wildflowers everywhere.

The wind always kicks up at dusk, and the last light turns the granite purple. You can smell the sage and sunbaked grass, hear the distant whirr of cicadas. There’s no place quite like it—beautiful, but a little bit haunted, too.

For an experienced outdoorsman like Mr. Knox, it was the perfect campsite.

He’d set up camp in the safest spot, just out of reach of the wind but with a view that’d make anyone’s jaw drop. Nobody in town dared camp that close to the drop, but Mr. Knox seemed fearless, or maybe just careless in a way the very rich can afford to be.

We climbed up to Mushroom Rock in the glow of sunset. Mr. Knox was roasting fish over a campfire.

The firelight flickered across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes. He’d set out an old Coleman lantern, and the camp chairs looked like something from an L.L. Bean catalog. The smell of fish drifted on the air, making my stomach growl.

The fish was freshly caught, grilled on a hot stone slab, just a sprinkle of salt and pepper—better than any fancy meal.

It crackled and hissed as the fat dripped onto the coals. The air was thick with that mouthwatering scent, and for a second, all my nerves faded into hunger. I’d take that over a steakhouse in the city any day.

“Hey, Aubrey’s here,” I called.

My voice sounded too loud in the open air, bouncing off the rocks. I forced a grin, trying to play it casual. Aubrey was already grinning, eager as a kid at a sleepover.

The aroma filled the air. After a whole afternoon’s walk, I was starving.

My stomach rumbled embarrassingly loud. Aubrey giggled and made a joke about hiking burning calories. I couldn’t help but laugh with her, even though a part of me wanted to keep my distance.

Mr. Knox glanced up and smiled. “Perfect timing, come join us.”

His voice had that relaxed, confident twang—almost like he owned the mountain. He looked at Aubrey as if she were an old friend, not a stranger I’d dragged up the trail.

Aubrey and I sat around the fire, and Mr. Knox handed each of us a fish.

The paper plates were chipped and mismatched, but the food was hot and real. Aubrey immediately started picking at hers with her fingers, not caring about etiquette.

Rainbow trout—the freshest in the world, though a bit bony.

I warned Aubrey about the tiny bones, but she waved me off. “I grew up on catfish. Nothing scares me.” She smiled, chewing happily.

As I gnawed on the fish, Mr. Knox counted out ten bills and stuffed them into my pocket.

The move was casual, but it made my skin crawl. Like he’d done this a thousand times. I could feel the paper burning a hole through my jeans, heavier than it should have been.

I hurried to refuse. “No, no, I can’t take your money.”

I half-stood, trying to give the cash back, glancing at Aubrey to see if she noticed. She was too busy with her fish, thankfully.

Mr. Knox forced the money into my pocket. “Eat first. When you’re done, help me set up a tent. I went over the ridge hunting pheasant today—came back empty-handed and nearly died of exhaustion.”

He said it with a wink, as if the world was just a little game he played for fun. But I could hear the command under the charm. This was a man used to getting his way.

“No problem, I’ll do it right away.”

I tried to sound grateful, but my hands shook as I gathered the tent poles. The old anxiety flared—like when I was a kid, always trying to do what was expected, but never sure if I’d get in trouble anyway.

As I stood up, something struck me:

Where’s Natalie?

The thought hit me like a slap. I scanned the camp, squinting at the fading light. Had she gone for water? Was she asleep in the tent?

I looked around Mushroom Rock. Even though it’s perched on a cliff, the top is a flat expanse.

There wasn’t anywhere to hide up there, just a couple of tents and some scrubby brush. My heart started to thump in my chest.

She’s just a girl—she wouldn’t have gone down the mountain alone, right?

I tried to tell myself she was probably just napping, but the image of her tired face from yesterday wouldn’t leave me. No cell service up here, no easy way back if something went wrong.

My eyes landed on the yellow tent Mr. Knox had already pitched.

It was zipped halfway, the nylon glinting in the last of the sun. I tried to tell myself not to look, but my feet moved anyway.

“Mr. Knox, is it okay to set up the tent here?” I called out.

I made my voice as steady as I could, forcing a smile. I pretended not to notice how close I was to the yellow tent.

“A bit farther, about… thirty feet away.”

He didn’t even look up, just waved a hand in some vague direction. I could tell he didn’t care where I set it, as long as I didn’t mess with his space.

About thirty feet—but he didn’t say which direction.

I shuffled around, pretending to measure distances, but all I could think about was the yellow tent. The air felt heavier over there, like something was watching.

Carrying the tent parts, I wandered around looking for a spot. As I passed the yellow tent, I couldn’t help but sneak a look inside.

I bent down, hands shaking. The zipper was half-open. I held my breath, waiting for a voice or a movement—anything.

The zipper was half open. Inside, a pair of legs was curled up.

They looked so still, so small. The skin was pale against the dark sleeping bag. I pressed my lips together, my chest tight.

Stockings. No shoes.

I blinked, trying to make sense of it. Who sleeps in stockings in a tent? My mind flashed back to Natalie’s outfit yesterday, trying to connect the dots.

Ankles bound with iron chains.

I stumbled backward, nearly dropping the tent poles. My vision swam for a second. I swallowed hard, tasting bile. That was real—cold steel and silent legs. My mind screamed at me to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. I wanted to shout, to tear open the tent, but all I could do was stare.