Page 2 of Obscurity (Pros and Cons Mysteries #5)

PRESENT DAY

O live Sterling stared out the windshield at the winding West Virginia road, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. She watched as the mist clung to the mountains like secrets refusing to be told.

She knew all about secrets. They were what she did best.

This week, she needed to discover information these mountains already knew.

The engine of her 91 Jeep Wagoneer hummed steadily beneath her as she navigated another sharp curve. But the familiar sound did nothing to calm the nervous energy thrumming through her veins.

In just over an hour, she’d be seeing Jason Stewart for the first time since he’d joined Aegis three weeks ago.

In those weeks, she’d successfully managed to avoid him. He’d been away on assignment, and when he returned she was gone, and vice versa.

Now, they were going to have to see each other. Work with each other.

Pretend to be married.

And she wasn’t sure she was ready.

But this case required both of them, and there was no avoiding him anymore. He would leave his current assignment and meet her at the lodge a little later.

She was a professional and could handle this. That was what she kept telling herself at least.

The sun was sinking behind the ridgeline, casting long shadows across the narrow ribbon of cracked asphalt that wound through the mountains like a scar. What had started as a proper two-lane highway hours ago had gradually deteriorated into something barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass.

The pavement was pitted with potholes that could swallow a tire, and in some places, chunks of roadway had crumbled away entirely, leaving jagged edges where the mountain had reclaimed its territory.

On her left, the road dropped away into a steep ravine choked with rhododendron and mountain laurel. Their dark leaves created an impenetrable wall of green that seemed to swallow sound.

On her right, weathered rock face rose at an impossible angle, streaked with rust-colored minerals and crowned with scraggly pine trees that clung to impossible handholds. Every few hundred yards, loose gravel cascaded down the slope, pinging against her windshield like warnings.

The guardrails—where they existed at all—were ancient things of rusted steel and rotting wood posts that looked like they’d collapse if a strong wind hit them. Most of the curves were blind, forcing her to creep around each bend while hoping nothing was coming from the opposite direction.

This wasn’t the kind of scenic mountain drive featured in tourism brochures—this was backcountry wilderness that felt more abandoned than picturesque, the kind of place where a breakdown could leave you stranded until morning.

Her phone rang on the holder on the dash, the screen displaying “Rex Blackwood.” Her boss. He was probably checking in one last time before she went dark for the weekend.

She hit the button, putting the phone on speaker.

“Sterling here.” She kept her eyes on the increasingly treacherous mountain road as she answered.

“Olive, I just wanted to—” Rex’s voice cut out, and harsh static filled the line.

She winced at the sound. “Rex, are you still there?”

“We’re getting reports of?—”

More static.

Then silence.

“Rex? Can you hear me?” She glanced at her phone’s display.

She had two bars, but the call had dropped.

She tried calling back, but the phone wouldn’t connect.

Spotty mountain reception most likely. What had he been trying to tell her?

Maybe he’d try again later, especially if it was important.

For now, Olive kept driving, mentally reviewing her persona for the weekend and all the details she needed to keep straight.

She hit the Play button on her phone screen, and music began drifting through her phone’s speaker. The band was Obscurity, ironically a group she’d never heard of before this assignment.

They had a strong following with their country-rap infusion. Personally, their songs hurt her ears. But she would have to endure this music all weekend, and she had to act like she liked it.

She needed to be able to sing along, to act like a super fan.

It was all in the job description.

She hummed along.

Down in the holler where the shadows grow long

There’s whispers in the wind of something gone wrong

They say don’t go walking when the moon gets thin

’Cause some folks who wander don’t come back again

These mountains got secrets buried deep and dark

They’ll swallow your soul and leave barely a mark

So listen real close to what the old folks say

Some places are meant to stay hidden away

A few minutes later, her GPS announced a detour due to road construction. The new route directed her off the backroad she was on and onto an even more narrow mountain road.

Her jaw hardened as she gripped the steering wheel more tightly. A detour hadn’t been on her schedule, but she was at the mercy of technology right now.

A few minutes later, the pavement gave way to gravel. Then a quarter of a mile later the road turned into something barely wider than a logging trail that wound through increasingly dense forest. Over time, heavy rainfall had left its mark, creating deep ruts in the rugged road.

This couldn’t be right. She checked the GPS again.

The device still insisted she was on the correct route to Pine Ridge Lodge.

Tension stretched between her shoulder blades.

She’d go a little farther, and if this road didn’t get any better, she would turn around.

After another ten minutes of progressively questionable navigation, she spotted her first sign of life.

A small, weathered gas station squatted beside the road like a forgotten monument to better times.

The building itself was a study in decay—white clapboard siding that had faded to the color of old bones, with paint peeling away in long strips that curled like dead skin.

The roof sagged in the middle, where decades of snow and rain had taken their toll, and several shingles had slipped loose, hanging at odd angles or missing entirely.

The concrete pad around the building was cracked and stained with motor oil, creating dark abstract patterns that looked almost deliberate. Weeds pushed up through every fissure, and an old metal sign advertising a long-defunct motor oil brand was riddled with bullet holes.

A hand-painted sign reading “Murphy’s Last Stop” hung from a single chain, the faded red letters barely visible against wood that had weathered to silver-gray. Below it, a smaller placard promised “Cold Beer · Hot Coffee · Bait,” though the paint was so faded it was hard to make out the words.

Two pickup trucks sat parked outside, which indicated the place was actually operational despite its decrepit appearance. One was a rusted Ford with a Confederate flag decal and the other a newer Chevy with mud-caked wheel wells.

Maybe a nice older man whose family had lived in this area for generations, who exuded Southern hospitality and warmth, was working inside and wouldn’t mind answering her questions.

People were more helpful out in the country, right?

And since she was in West Virginia, Southern hospitality should be in full swing.

Olive pulled to a stop and parked in the gravel lot.

She’d go inside, ask for directions, and hopefully still arrive at the lodge in time to meet Jason.

Detours hadn’t been on her schedule. But sometimes, they were inevitable.

The bell above the door chimed as Olive entered, and she was hit by the smell of stale cigarettes, motor oil, and something indefinably sour.

Was that alcohol of some sort?

Her instincts immediately went on alert.

She wasn’t afraid of being in the backwoods. Of being an outsider.

She’d lived the life of an outsider, so she was used to it.

But something about this place felt a little too backward for her tastes.

She quickly scanned the store. A single glass-fronted refrigerator with drinks inside. Several displays of snacks. A wall of cigarettes.

The floor was stained. The ceiling tiles had water marks or were missing altogether. Everything was dirty, covered in years of dust and grime.

Two men stood near the beer cooler. Their conversation stopped when she walked in.

Both men were probably in their forties and wore work clothes that had seen better days. Baseball caps were pulled low over their faces, and the shorter one had a bushy beard. The taller one had pale eyes that tracked her movement with uncomfortable intensity.

Her instincts screamed for her to leave.

“Help you?” The clerk behind the counter was an older man with grizzled features and suspicious eyes.

He didn’t exude the Southern hospitality Olive had hoped for. Instead, he gave off a hunting vibe—but not in a good way.

It was in a way that indicated she could be the prey.

“Good evening. I’m trying to get to Pine Ridge Lodge.” Olive kept her voice friendly despite the prickle of unease between her shoulder blades. “My GPS took me on some kind of detour, and I think I’m lost.”

“Pine Ridge, huh?” The clerk’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in the atmosphere of the small store. “You here for that music thing?”

“That’s right. Just a weekend getaway.” She pulled out her phone, hoping to show him the route she’d been following. “My phone’s acting up, though. I can’t seem to get online.”

“Yeah, reception ain’t great around here.” The clerk stared at the map on her phone. “Pine Ridge is about thirty minutes back the way you came, then left on County Road 15. Can’t miss it.”

“There’s no road construction?”

He shrugged. “Not that I’ve heard about.”

Thirty minutes back? This detour had put her seriously behind schedule.

She was about to ask for clarification when one of the men by the beer cooler spoke up.

“Another one heading to Grayfall.” Though he was speaking to his companion, his gravelly voice carried in the small space. “They don’t know what they’re in for.”

Olive wasn’t sure if he was playing with her, trying to scare her away, or both. His tone was impossible to read.

“Too many people asking questions about that place,” the other man said. “They’re about to find out what kinds of things happen there.”

She glanced back. She’d felt the man’s eyes on her since she stepped inside—and they weren’t always on her face either.

“Some folks need to learn to stay away from places where they don’t belong,” Pale Eyes continued.

The words were clearly meant for her to hear. They were a warning, delivered in a way that suggested these men were used to making people uncomfortable. Maybe they even enjoyed it.

Olive maintained her friendly demeanor while keeping her eye on the exit and noting the exact positioning of everyone in the store.

Over her shoulder, she noticed that Pale Eyes had shifted toward the door.

She needed to get out of here. Now.

“Well, thanks for the directions.” Her voice carried just the right note of cheerful gratitude while her fingers curled slightly at her sides, ready to react.

The smile she offered was perfectly calibrated—wide enough to seem genuine, but not so broad as to appear nervous.

Her shoulders remained relaxed despite the adrenaline coursing through her system, and she kept her breathing steady and controlled even as she memorized the exact distance to each potential threat.

She headed toward the exit with measured steps that looked casual but kept her balanced and ready to react.

She was almost to the door when Pale Eyes shuffled around her and stepped directly into her path, close enough that she could smell stale beer and tobacco on his breath.

“Maybe you didn’t hear us.” His voice was low and threatening as he grabbed her arm. “Some places ain’t meant for outsiders. But we could make an exception for you. Maybe make a deal.”

Her skin crawled as he looked her up and down. “What kind of deal?”

He grinned as if victorious and stepped closer. “Why don’t you let me show you a good time?”

Behind him, his friend hooted in encouragement.

Olive’s stomach roiled with disgust. This place wasn’t meant for out-of-towners. It was only for locals—and maybe not all locals. Some locals probably knew better than to come in here.

She’d made a serious mistake by coming inside.

She looked at the man leering at her.

Then every muscle inside her coiled like a spring ready to unleash.