Page 37 of Obscurity
Maya pushed through the crowd, her composure finally cracking. “This is ridiculous! My followers are going to absolutely roast this place!”
“There’s plenty of food.” An edge of defensiveness filled the chef’s tone. “Hot dogs may not be ideal, but it’s what we’ve got until we get our next delivery.”
“What did you do?” Frat Boy yelled. “Forget to pay your vendors or something?”
Olive watched the scene unfold with growing unease. The food situation wasn’t just disappointing—it was potentially dangerous. If people were stranded here for three days with inadequate provisions and no way to leave . . .
“Ladies and gentlemen!” A new voice cut through the complaints.
Olive turned to see a man in his forties climb on top of one of the tables.
Before he said his name, she knew exactly who he was.
He was the man at the top of her suspect list.
CHAPTER 22
“I’m Brad Kellerman, festival director, and I want to personally welcome you to what’s going to be the most unique musical experience of your lives!”
The crowd turned toward the man, their complaints temporarily set aside.
Olive studied Brad. He carried himself with the confident swagger of someone accustomed to getting his way. He was tall and lean with graying hair that made him look distinguished rather than old, and he had the kind of sharp features that could be handsome or menacing depending on his mood. His clothes were expensive but practical—designer outdoor wear that actually looked lived-in.
She would guess him to be in his early fifties . . . would put him close to the same age as her father if he were still alive.
Had the two ever met? She stowed the question away in the back of her mind.
“Now, I know some of you might be feeling a little . . .surprisedby our setup here.” Brad’s smile never wavered. “But that’s exactly the point! We’re not trying to recreate some corporate mega-festival. We’re creating something authentic,something real, something that connects you directly to the music and the natural world around you.”
“Where are the headliners?” someone called from the crowd. “The schedule said Midnight Echo is supposed to perform tonight. Are they here? Do they have better accommodations than us?”
“Ah, yes.” Brad’s smile dimmed. “We’ll have some updates for you soon. In the meantime, grab a bite to eat and get settled in your tents. Then we’ll meet back here in an hour for our unforgettable festival to begin!”
The murmurs from the crowd were decidedly less enthusiastic.
Olive thought about the Grayfall Guardian’s cryptic warning. Looking around at the hastily assembled stage, the basic camping setup, and the strangely jammed cell service, she was beginning to understand what he’d meant about things that didn’t belong.
This wasn’t a music festival. It was a trap.
And they were all caught in it.
But the question was—why?
“Site twelve.” Max consulted his clipboard as he led Olive and Jason down a path between the camping areas. “Your luxury wilderness suite.”
He gestured toward what could generously be called a campsite—a patch of trampled earth near the river, surrounded by other sites that felt entirely too close. In the center sat a two-person dome tent that looked like it had been purchased from a thrift store’s clearance rack. The olive-green nylon was alreadyshowing signs of wear, with a visible patch of duct tape covering what was probably a hole near the bottom.
Bathrooms? They consisted of a row of portable toilets set up on the edge of the campground. Apparently, showers weren’t an option.
Gross.
“This is it?” Jason’s voice carried the perfect note of disappointed confusion that their cover story required.
“Premium camping experience.” Max’s enthusiasm sounded forced. “You’ve got your shelter, camp chairs, and a designated fire ring.” He pointed to a circle of rocks that looked like they’d been pulled from the river and hastily arranged that morning. “Everything you need for an authentic wilderness adventure.”
Olive stepped closer to examine their accommodations. The tent was smaller than it had appeared in the promotional photos—barely large enough for two sleeping bags, let alone the comfortable bedding that had been promised. Two flimsy camp chairs sat beside a plastic storage bin that presumably contained their “luxury amenities.”
She lifted the lid of the bin and found a single battery-powered lantern, two thin sleeping bags that crinkled like they were stuffed with newspaper, and a package of generic granola bars.
