Chapter 4: The Barstool Confession
The bar felt hollow after the mother and the PI left. The confrontation had been a quiet, terrible thing—a woman with the same eyes as her missing daughter, clutching a photograph of the girl holding a Virgin River landmark sign, the date stamp clear. The PI, a man named Collins with the weary posture of someone who only delivered bad news, had laid out his timeline. The girl, Chloe, had been here. Then she was gone.
Jack had promised everything, every resource. Brady had volunteered to comb the woods with a search team at first light. Mike had coordinated with county, his face grave. Now, hours later, the 'Closed' sign was turned, the chairs were upturned on tables, and the air smelled of bleach and tired silence.
Brady ran a mop over the last patch of floor near the pool table with a soldier's efficiency, while Jack meticulously counted the till behind the bar, his movements stiff. The numbers weren'tt registering. He just needed the routine.
At a corner table, under a single pendant light, Mel and Brie sat. A nearly empty bottle of cabernet stood between them, two glasses half-full. Mel swirled her wine, watching the legs slide down the glass. Her body hummed with a strange cocktail of residual intimacy, deep anxiety, and a specific, low-grade ache that made her shift carefully on the wooden chair.
Brie noticed. She took a slow sip, her sharp attorney's eyes missing nothing. "You hurt your back helping Doc today?"
"No," Mel said, then caught Brie's gaze. She saw the flicker of understanding, the slight arch of an auburn eyebrow.
A beat of silence hung between them, filled only by the squeak of Brady's mop and the clink of coins from the bar.
Brie's eyes widened. A choked sound escaped her, then burst into full, rolling laughter. She slapped the table lightly, her rings clicking against the wood. "Oh my God. You didn't. My brother? In your ass?"
Mel felt a fiery blush climb her neck. She hid her face in her hands, but she was smiling behind them. It was either that or scream from the sheer surreal whiplash of the day.
"Shhh," Mel hissed, peeking through her fingers. Jack and Brady had both paused their tasks, looking over.
"Everything okay?" Jack asked, his voice rough with concern.
"Just girls' talk!" Brie called back, waving a dismissive hand, her laughter subsiding into breathless giggles. She leaned across the table, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously. Don't be embarrassed. It's a rite of passage. I remember my first time... God, I couldn't sit right on a courtroom bench for two days. I had to plead a motion standing up."
Mel lowered her hands, intrigued despite herself. "Really?"
"Really." Brie's smile was warm, conspiratorial. "But it's the best kind of pain, isn't it? That full, claimed feeling. Like you've been... rewritten."
The accuracy of the description stunned Mel. She nodded, a shy, genuine smile spreading. "Yeah. It is."
Brie clinked her glass against Mel's. "Solidarity, sister. Welcome to the club." She took a drink, then her expression softened, becoming more serious. "It's good, you know. What you two have. In the middle of all this... darkness. You have to grab the light where you can. Hold onto it."
Mel traced the rim of her glass. "It feels almost wrong. To have had that today, after seeing that woman's face."
"It's not wrong," Brie said firmly. "It's necessary. It's the fuel. Otherwise, the dark eats you alive." She glanced over at Brady, who was leaning on his mop, listening to Jack. A quiet, private look passed over her face. "We all find our anchors."
From the bar, Jack's phone buzzed, a harsh vibration on the polished wood. He looked at it, his posture tensing all over again. He answered, walking into the back office for privacy.
The light mood evaporated. Mel and Brie exchanged a glance. The anchor was still there, but the storm was pulling hard on the chain.
Brady walked over, resting his hands on Brie's shoulders. "He's organizing the search for dawn. Mike's got a map of trails. I'll be leading one of the groups."
Brie reached up, covering his hand with hers. "Be careful."
"Always am."
Jack emerged from the office, his face a mask of controlled intensity. "That was Mike again. Collins, the PI, is staying at the B&B. He wants to meet with all of us tomorrow, early. He's pulled Chloe's phone records. The last ping was from a cell tower just north of here." He looked at Mel, then Brady and Brie. "He thinks she might have been meeting someone. Someone local."
The words landed like stones in the quiet bar. Someone local. The threat wasn't an abstract stranger passing through anymore. It was a neighbor, a regular, a face they might know. The cozy trust of the town contracted, growing sharp and suspicious.
Mel stood up, the soreness in her body a fleeting, unimportant thing. She walked to Jack, slipping her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers, tight enough to hurt, but she didn't mind. She needed the pressure.
"We'll find the truth," she said, not sure if she was promising him, or herself, or the ghost of the girl in the photograph.
Jack nodded, lifting their joined hands to kiss her knuckles. The gesture was tenderness, but his eyes were already scanning the invisible map, plotting the search, assessing the threat. The Marine was back, fully deployed.
Brie finished her wine, a decisive motion. "Then we'll be here. First light."
They locked up the bar, stepping out into the cold, clear Virginia night. The stars were brutally bright, the moon a sharp sliver. The mountains loomed, beautiful and swallowing. Somewhere in that vast, pine-scented dark, a story had ended badly. And tomorrow, they would begin the grim work of trying to read its last page.