Mara’s boots sank into the mud as she pushed through the thicket, the air thick with the tang of pine resin and damp earth. The note had been folded twice, its edges frayed, tucked beneath a rock at the edge of the old logging trail. She unfolded it, her fingers trembling, and read the words again: *They’re lying about the fire. Find the red ribbon.* Her mother’s handwriting, jagged and hurried, as if she’d scribbled it in darkness.
The forest around her had changed since the fire. Trees stood skeletal, their bark scorched to ash, but here, in this hollow, the undergrowth thrived—vines coiled around fallen trunks, and the scent of wild strawberries clung to the air. Mara crouched, tracing the edge of the note with her thumb. Her father had said it was an accident, that the fire had started in the dry grass and spread too fast. But her mother hadn’t believed it.
A twig snapped behind her. Mara spun, heart hammering, but the only movement was a flicker of blue in the trees—a jay, wings spread, then gone. She stood, shoving the note into her jacket pocket, and turned back toward the town. The sky had darkened, clouds heavy with rain that hadn’t fallen yet.
At the edge of the woods, she paused. The town of Black Hollow lay below, its rooftops blurred by the hush of evening. She could still hear her mother’s voice, low and urgent, from the night before she died: *Mara, if something happens to me, go to the river. Find the red ribbon.*
The river was a thread of silver in the distance, winding through the valley. Mara’s boots made wet squelching sounds as she walked, the weight of the note pressing against her ribs. She didn’t notice the figure watching her from the ridge until it was too late.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said.
Mara froze. The man was tall, his face shadowed beneath a cap, but she recognized the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw—a mark he’d gotten in a fight years ago, before he’d left town.
“Jax,” she said, her voice thin.
He stepped forward, hands in his pockets. “You’re chasing ghosts, Mara. Let it go.”
“You were there that night,” she said. “You saw what happened.”
His expression didn’t shift. “I saw a fire. That’s all.”
She clenched her fists. “You lied to me.”
“I protected you,” he said. “You think you’re the only one who lost something?”
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain. Mara turned away, her throat tight. She didn’t need his pity. She needed the truth.
The river was wider than she remembered, its surface rippling with the first drops of rain. She waded in, the water biting her ankles, and scanned the banks. There had to be a ribbon—something to prove her mother hadn’t died in vain.
A flash of red caught her eye. It was tied to a branch, half-hidden by moss, and when she pulled it free, the fabric was still damp. A single word had been stitched into it: *Hollow.*
Mara’s breath hitched. The town’s name. The river’s name. Her mother’s last message.
She turned, intending to run, but the water was already rising. The rain had begun in earnest, and the current was stronger than she’d expected. She stumbled, her foot catching on a rock, and fell into the river’s grip.
The cold was a shock, then a numbness that spread through her limbs. She fought against the current, but the river was relentless. Her fingers scraped against the muddy bottom, searching for something—anything—to hold on to.
Then, a hand grasped hers. Jax. His grip was firm, his face pale in the storm’s glow. “Hold on,” he said.
Mara clung to him as the river dragged them downstream, the world a blur of rain and shadow. When they finally reached the bank, she collapsed into the mud, gasping for breath.
Jax knelt beside her, his eyes searching hers. “You don’t understand,” he said. “The fire wasn’t an accident. Your mother found something—something the town didn’t want exposed.”
“What?” she whispered.
He hesitated, then pulled a photo from his pocket. It was old, yellowed at the edges, but the faces were clear: her mother, standing beside a man Mara didn’t recognize, both of them holding a map. “This is the river’s source,” Jax said. “And this is what they buried there.”
Mara stared at the photo, her mind racing. The town had always been quiet, its people tight-lipped about the old logging operations. But if her mother had uncovered something—something dangerous—then the fire wasn’t just a tragedy. It was a warning.
“We need to go back,” she said. “Before they realize we’re onto it.”
Jax nodded, but his expression was grim. “They already know. That’s why I’m here.”
The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet earth. Mara stood, her clothes soaked, her heart pounding. The river had given her a clue, but it had also taken something—her mother’s final message, her sense of safety.
She looked at Jax, then at the photo in his hand. “Tell me everything,” she said.
