Chapter 6: Shadows in the Group Chat

The fishing group chat was buzzing. Everyone was talking about the disappearances.

People shared theories, rumors, even wild guesses. Some blamed outsiders, others whispered about old grudges. No one had any real answers.

But eventually, the conversation took a weird turn.

Someone joked about setting traps, another suggested hiring a private eye. It was nervous laughter, the kind that comes when you’re scared but trying not to show it.

“Anglers know anglers best. What if the killer is in this group?”

The message hung in the air. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

The second that message popped up, the chat went dead silent.

No one replied. The little dots that showed someone was typing flickered, then vanished. It was like everyone was holding their breath.

On a whim, I screenshotted it and sent it to Donnelly.

I figured he’d want to see it. Maybe it was nothing, but maybe it was a clue.

Because of his job, he wasn’t in the chat.

He’d always said it was better to keep a little distance, to avoid any conflicts of interest. Now, I wondered if that was a mistake.

He agreed it was possible.

His reply was quick—“Good thinking, Marty. Keep your eyes open.”

But whether the killer was really in the chat, no one could say.

It was just a theory, but it made me uneasy. Who could you trust, if not your own friends?

After all, so far it was just disappearances—no proof of a killer yet.

No bodies, no crime scene, nothing concrete. Just a string of missing men and a lot of fear.

But as time passed, there was still no word from the three missing men.

Their families put up flyers, organized search parties, begged for information. Nothing turned up.

It had been over ten days since the first one vanished. Everyone assumed the worst.

Hope faded. People started talking about funerals, not rescue missions.

Who was behind all this?

The question gnawed at me. Was it someone I knew? Someone I’d fished with, laughed with?

Were they alive or dead?

Late at night, I’d stare at the ceiling, wondering if the missing men were still out there, waiting to be found.

What was the killer’s motive?

Money? Revenge? Or just some sick thrill? I had no idea, and that scared me more than anything.

The group chat wasn’t as lively as before, but people started opening up again.

Slowly, folks began to talk—about the case, about their fears, about anything to break the silence.

After talking about the missing anglers and speculating about the killer, the conversation drifted back to fishing.

Old habits die hard. The itch to get back on the water was strong, even with the danger.

Fishing alone can be dangerous, but what about going in a group?

Someone suggested teaming up—“safety in numbers,” they said. Others weren’t so sure.

I watched as people in the chat discussed teaming up to go fishing. I stayed silent, just lurking.

I read every message, weighing every word. Part of me wanted to join in, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t safe.

Clearly, everyone was itching to get back out there—their hands were practically twitching.

I pictured them pacing their living rooms, staring at their gear, trying to resist the urge. It was almost funny—if it wasn’t so sad.

To avoid temptation, I just shut off my phone.

I tossed it on the nightstand, rolled over, and tried to sleep. It didn’t help.

Lying in bed, I thought about Hank’s disappearance.

I replayed every detail—his jokes, the way he packed up his gear, the drive home. Was there something I missed?

That night, we’d headed home around four in the morning. There was no one on the roads at that hour.

The world was dark and empty, just headlights and the hum of the engine. If someone followed us, I never saw them.

The drive back flew by—I got home before six.

I remember the sunrise breaking over the horizon, painting everything gold. It felt like a good omen at the time.

Hank must’ve disappeared after we’d already driven into town.

That was the only thing that made sense. I tried to remember if anyone else was on the road, but nothing stood out.

A lot of people knew he went night fishing, but who knew when he’d finish?

It wasn’t like we posted our schedules online. Only close friends or family would know when we’d be out that late.

Suddenly, I sat up straight.

A thought hit me—hard. Whoever did this had to know the victims’ habits, their routines. This wasn’t random.

If the same person was behind all three disappearances, they must have known the victims well—and known fishing inside out.

It would take someone from the inside—someone who blended in, who understood the little details.

Especially someone like Hank, who loved night fishing. Most people wouldn’t have a clue when he’d pack up.

Night fishing isn’t for everyone. Only the diehards stick it out until dawn. Whoever took Hank knew exactly when to strike.

The killer was probably an angler, too.

That realization made my blood run cold. Was I friends with a killer?

But why those three? What did they have in common?

I racked my brain, trying to find a connection. Nothing obvious jumped out.

I didn’t know. Of the three, I only really knew Hank.

The other two were more like acquaintances—faces in the crowd. I wondered if they’d ever fished together.

I messaged a few fishing buddies to ask about the other two.

I kept it casual, not wanting to spook anyone. “Hey, you ever fish with Tom or Steve?”

“Hey, Marty, you giving up fishing to become a detective now?”

One guy sent a laughing emoji. I tried to laugh it off, but I was dead serious.

“Cut it out. I just want the truth so we can fish without looking over our shoulders.”

I typed back, hoping someone would take me seriously.

But I was disappointed. The other two were just regular guys—no known grudges, good reputations.

Everyone said the same thing—“nice guy, never caused trouble, always shared his bait.” It didn’t help.

Could the killer really be picking victims at random?

The idea made my skin crawl. Random meant no one was safe—not me, not anyone.

That thought annoyed me, so I decided to go get something to eat.

If I couldn’t solve it, I could at least fill my stomach. Sometimes, a good meal is the only comfort you get.

Better to leave these headaches to the pros.

I told myself Donnelly would figure it out. He always did.