But I’m not stopping.

If something took @roadhousebeauty.bsky.social, it picked the wrong damn mother.~

her lighter, perched on the porch rail like some kind of breadcrumb. I grab it, run my thumb over the worn edge. Still warm. She’s close.

I rack the shotgun and step into the trees. “Jo!” I call out, sharp and loud, the way I used to yell when she snuck off as a kid.

No answer. <

out here... heavy, quiet, like the woods are holding their breath. I’ve hunted places like this before. That kind of silence never means anything good.

Up ahead, the ranger station leans to one side, half-eaten by moss and time. Doesn’t look like anyone’s set foot here in years. But there it is, <

but none of that matters.

The Impala’s nowhere in sight, so she’s not with the boys. Which means she went in alone. Again. Goddammit, Jo @roadhousebeauty.bsky.social.

I slam the truck door harder than I mean to, sling the duffel over my shoulder, and head toward the tree line. The air’s too still<

hook like a freight train was asking questions about a missing hunter near some half-rotted ranger station out in the woods. That’s where I’m headed now. Thirty miles of back road and another three on foot. My boots are caked in mud, I haven’t slept, and I’m running on black coffee and sheer will, <

~~ Starter with @roadhousebeauty.bsky.social ~~


Three days now, no call, no text. Just silence. And Jo knows better. She damn well knows better. I’ve been chasing her trail since Nebraska. Sheriff there said a blonde with a right<