Hour of the Moon

Chapter 19: Interception

The headline came first, sharp as a blade:
Unraveled: The Concealed Murders and Disappearances.

I typed like the keys owed me blood.

Northern and southern spines of the Smokies cupped Cherokee National Forest in their green fists—more than 600,000 acres of hush and teeth, stitched to Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia. In that quilt, a small square: Cherokee. Fewer than five thousand hearts. Enough secrets to drown a city.

Perfect little town, antique charm lacquered over rot. The new murders weren't random. They were the echo of a promise made ten years ago, when Wohali Clearwater died on a rain-slick highway and something old started counting down.

My fingers stopped. Adrenaline slipped into my veins like heat. Finally—an article that would punch through the polite wallpaper of this place.

Tunnel vision took me. As long as I could claw my way back to California with bylines and proof, I wouldn't let anyone pry me off this story.

Two months left. Amy would call. She had to.

My phone buzzed instead.

Savannah: Can you step into my office?

I went. She was finishing a call, smiling that newsroom-smile that hides a hundred fires.

"Just a second," she mouthed, then: "Uh-huh, Mrs. Mavis. We'll follow up. Yes ma'am."

She hung up and sagged a half-inch in her chair. "Lord, that woman is a handful." A throat-clear.

The smile vanished. "I talked to Amy this morning. She wants to extend you another three months."

It punched the air out of me. "Why?"

"I told her you're a great asset," Savannah said, apology softening her eyes. "I know that's not what you wanted to hear."

"Same pay?"

"Same pay. Housing, expenses. You're covered."

Covered. Like a sheet over a body. I had planned to be gone by Christmas—new job or no job, I'd gamble. Then I remembered student loans, a credit card balance with fangs, and the way certainty looked on people who weren't me. The extension felt like mercy in a disguise I didn't like.

By afternoon the day blurred.

Halloween had started creeping over town—plastic gravestones in pharmacy windows, jack-o'-lantern grins, fake cobwebs soft as lies. My mother used to call it the Devil's Holiday; my father dragged me to church while other kids ran door to door.

In college, I'd called it an alibi: a costume, a bad decision, a blackout.

I wasn't that girl anymore. I wasn't sure who I was now.

At home, I shed my jacket and boots and went straight to the fridge. Delivery whispered my name.

I made a chicken salad instead, because discipline is sometimes just poverty with manners.

The landline rang as I salted the skillet.

"Hey, baby," my mother said.

My throat tightened. Don't cry.

"I wanted to hear your voice," she said. "Are you okay?"

"Unsure," I admitted, watching heat shimmer under the pan.

"I thought you were there two more months?"

"So did I. They've extended me."

"Sometimes God puts us where we need to be, not where we want to be," she said gently. "I know you don't want to hear that."