Page 1 of Mate Night Snack
1
KATNISS
Katniss Greaves drove straight into a watercolor painting.
The mist curled low over the winding mountain road like it had a purpose—intentional and watching. Trees rose tall and moss-bearded on either side of the cracked pavement, their leaves shimmering faintly as if kissed by moonlight even in the middle of the day. The forest felt alive in a way that pricked at her spine. Not haunted exactly, but aware.
Her dusty Jeep chugged as she crested the final hill, the suspension groaning like it had an opinion. “Don’t start with me,” she muttered, patting the dashboard. “We’re almost there.”
The town blinked into view between the trees like it had been waiting for her to find it. Hollow Oak wasn’t on any official maps—not the ones most people used. She’d found it by accident. Or maybe it found her.
One cryptic email. No sender. No traceable IP. Just a subject line:You missed one.
And attached? A scan of a yellowed newspaper clipping about a local girl who’d gone missing in the 1990s. Unsolved. The sort of cold case that made her blood run hot.
Now, her leather satchel rattled on the passenger seat with every bump, packed with a battered manila folder, two field notebooks, and her mic. A half-drunk bottle of cold brew rolled under her thigh.
“Let’s see what you’re hiding, Hollow Oak,” she murmured.
The town center was small—storybook quaint, if the story came with side notes scribbled in red ink. Brick buildings, ivy climbing up their sides. A tiny post office. A diner with a hand-painted sign:The Griddle & Grind.An inn with lace-curtained windows and flower boxes that practically burst with color. Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
She parked in front of the inn and stepped out, stretching her legs and taking in the scene. The air was thick with pine and woodsmoke and… something else. Something metallic that bit faintly at the back of her nose, like old magic and iron. That made zero sense. She chalked it up to the altitude.
“Katniss Greaves?” a voice called from behind a wooden swing on the inn’s wide porch.
The woman who stepped down the stairs wore half-moon spectacles and a smile that managed to be both kind and knowing. Her silver hair was swept into a loose bun, and a floral apron was tied around her waist, already dusted with flour.
“That’s me,” Katniss said, tugging her leather satchel over her shoulder.
“Miriam Caldwell. I run the Hearth & Hollow.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “You’ve got the lake-view room. Top of the stairs, third door on the left.”
“Thanks.” Katniss tried not to sound winded from the welcome committee vibe, but the way Miriam looked at her—like sheknewsomething Katniss didn’t—set her nerves buzzing.
As she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, she caught movement from across the street. A man stood on the edge ofa path that disappeared into the woods behind the tavern. Not standing, exactly—looming. Watching.
He was tall, all harsh angles and broad shoulders under a black utility jacket that had definitely seen better days. His arms were crossed, boots planted like he owned the earth beneath him. Dark tousled hair fell just over his brow, and even from here, she could make out the glint of storm-colored eyes narrowed in her direction.
The kind of man whose scowl didn’t sayhello,it saidturn around and walk back to wherever the hell you came from.
“Ignore Emmett,” Miriam said, voice dipped low. “He’s more bark than bite. Mostly.”
Katniss blinked. “That a warning?”
Miriam chuckled. “Only if you plan on poking wild things with a stick.”
“I might,” she said, then smiled sweetly and stepped inside.
—
The room smelled like lavender and old wood and had a quilt that looked handmade. Katniss dropped her bag on the bed and pulled her mic from the side pouch. She twisted the end, watching the tiny red light flicker on.
“New entry. Hollow Oak, Blue Ridge Mountains. Population? Unclear. Mystery level? High.”
She walked toward the window and peeked through the sheer curtain. The mist had started creeping in again, rolling between buildings like it had business of its own.
“There’s something off about this place,” she said quietly. “Too clean. Too charming. Like a set built for a show nobody’s watching anymore. But somebody is. Always. Watching.”
