3. Grace

3

GRACE

T he next day, I decide to leave the office in the guise of investigating another piece. I tell my editor that I've gotten a whiff of something that's about to break any minute, and he gives me his blessing. I'll have to come up with something worthwhile, but I'll worry about that later.

Feeling a twinge of guilt as I drive to the woods, I stifle the feeling. My research is telling me I'm onto something here. Something big.

For most of my life, I thought what happened to Becky was a figment of my imagination. A nightmare I had repressed. My parents didn't dissuade me from this thought, in fact, they encouraged it. They told me that Becky had died in a car accident, and I believed it for a long time.

It was only recently, a few months before my mother died, that I discovered the truth. I'd been so traumatized after witnessing Becky's murder, that I hadn't spoken for months afterward. They'd taken me to therapy, brought me to all my favorite places, bribed me with loads of gifts – and nothing worked. They'd been desperate to help me, so when I finally started talking and acting as if nothing had happened, they played along with it.

Initially, I'd resented the choice they'd taken. Becky had been my best friend. We'd shared birthdays, and toys. We'd walked to school together, had sleepovers at each other's houses, and promised we'd be each other's maids of honor. Becky's parents were so heartbroken at her death, they'd sold their house and moved away.

As an investigative journalist, I could probably find out where they are. But to what purpose? After so many years, I don't want to reach out unless I have actual news to share. Nothing else will matter.

My mother had been racked with guilt. And, one day, while she was at home in hospice, we started talking about my nightmares. She finally told me the truth. That it hadn't been a nightmare – at least, not technically one.

I was the sole witness and my initial statements before going into shock had been chalked up as the result of a vivid imagination.

Clenching the steering wheel, I try to shrug off the irritation at the memory. I remember now, and I won't rest until I find out what really happened to Becky.

Focusing on the research I'd read the night before, I need to knuckle down and find some eyewitnesses who may know something.

I pull into the small gravel lot at the edge of the forest, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. I need to find someone who can give me any piece of information, any detail that might help me unravel the truth. The dense woods loom ahead, the morning sunlight filtering through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and start walking down the dirt path, the crunch of gravel under my boots the only sound in the quiet. As I move deeper into the forest, the air grows cooler, the scent of pine and earth filling my senses. I pass by a few hikers and ask them a few questions, but none of them seem like they'd have the answers I'm looking for.

After an hour of wandering, I finally spot a lone lumberjack working up ahead. Even with his back turned, I can't tear my eyes away. Each swing of the ax showcases his broad shoulders and muscular frame. He moves with a raw, commanding power that leaves me mesmerized.

As I draw closer, I take in his tall stature, sinewy arms, and confident stance. A thrill courses through me. Before I can stop myself, I clear my throat softly to get his attention.

He turns, piercing me with intense, smoldering eyes that pin me in place. I take in his chiseled features and day-old stubble, my cheeks flushing warm. He looks me up and down, his gaze possessive but appreciative, seeming to like what he sees

Setting down his axe, he approaches with an animalistic grace. I sense a barely leashed dominance lurking just below the surface.

I open my mouth to respond but words fail me. Up close, his raw masculinity and coiled strength leaves me breathless. He crosses his arms, muscles bulging, waiting expectantly with an arrogant tilt of his lips.

A swell of submission washes over me under his powerful aura. With effort, I finally manage to find my voice. "Hey there. I didn't mean to startle you," I say softly, cursing myself for sounding so meek.

The lumberjack's eyes gleam with satisfaction. I have a feeling this alpha male likes reducing women to quivering messes. And I can't deny part of me thrills to his dominant energy.

"It's alright," he says gruffly. "What brings you out here?"

I smile, feeling a strange sense of warmth in his presence. "I was just exploring. I didn't expect to find anyone this deep in the woods."

He studies me for a moment, his intense hazel eyes taking in my slender figure and determined gaze.

"I'm Ethan," he says, extending a hand.

"Grace," I reply, taking it. His touch sends a jolt through me, like an electric current. "Nice to meet you, Ethan."

He releases my hand, and I feel a strange sense of loss. "Be careful out here," he says, his voice softer now. "The woods can be dangerous."

"I'll keep that in mind," I reply, my smile widening. "I thought I've seen all the danger there is."

His eyes narrow slightly, curiosity evident. "What do you mean?"

I decide to test the waters. "I'm an investigative journalist. I've been looking into some of the strange occurrences around Pilham Cove."

His expression turns guarded, but he doesn't back away. "Strange occurrences?"

"Yes. Unexplained animal attacks, mysterious creatures. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Ethan's jaw tightens, and he looks away, his gaze distant. "I've heard stories, but nothing concrete. Why are you so interested?"

I hesitate. "I'm just trying to dig deeper, find the truth. It's what I do."

He studies me for a moment, his intense hazel eyes searching mine. "And you think there's more to these stories?"

"I do," I reply, my voice steady. "I've been following up on every lead I can find, but it's like chasing shadows. Most people think I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy," he says firmly. "Sometimes the truth is hidden in the darkness."

"Do you really believe that?" I ask, hope and doubt mingling in my voice. Perhaps he'll share more of what he knows.

Ethan hesitates, then nods. "Yes, I do. And if there's anything I can do to help, I will."

A flicker of surprise crosses my face, followed by a grateful smile. "I appreciate that, Ethan. Maybe we could work together, share information?"

He considers this for a moment, then nods. "I'd like that. What do you want to know?"

"Have you ever seen anything strange in the woods? Anything that doesn't quite fit?"

His demeanor shifts slightly, a hint of wariness creeping into his eyes. "I've seen a few things that might qualify as strange. But the woods are like that. Full of mysteries."

"What about… shifters?" I ask, choosing my words carefully. "Have you ever heard of them?"

Ethan's expression turns cagey, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Shifters? You mean like those werewolf legends?"

"Sort of," I say, feeling the tension in the air. "But shifters can change at will, not just during a full moon. They can blend in with humans, hide in plain sight."

He takes a step back, his gaze guarded. "I've heard stories, but nothing concrete. Why are you so interested in shifters?" Ethan places his axe head-first into the stump, resting his head on top of it. His hands look strong and capable, a little shiver that has nothing to do with fear runs through my spine.

I shrug, trying to appear casual. "They're just part of the bigger picture I'm trying to piece together."

Ethan studies me for a moment, his eyes searching mine. "Be careful, Grace. Sometimes the truth is more dangerous than the mystery."

I feel a pang of disappointment but decide to press on. "Do you know anyone who might have more information? Someone who's been in these woods longer?"

He shakes his head, a hint of frustration in his eyes. "Not off the top of my head. But I'll keep an ear out."

"Thanks," I say, trying to hide my disappointment. "I appreciate it."

He nods, his gaze softening slightly. "Just be careful, alright? The woods can be unpredictable."

"I will," I promise, feeling a strange mix of hope and frustration. "Thanks for your help, Ethan."

"Anytime," he replies, his smile returning. "And if you ever need a guide through these woods, you know where to find me."

I smile back, feeling a connection between us that I can't quite explain. "I'll keep that in mind."

We stand there for a moment, the forest around us holding its breath. The attraction between us is palpable, a magnetic pull that's hard to ignore. I decide to break the silence, eager to know more about him.

"How long have you been a woodcutter?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Ethan's eyes light up, a hint of pride in his expression. "It's in my blood. My father was a woodcutter, as was his father before him. I guess you could say it's the family business."

"It suits you perfectly," I say, admiring the way he looks so at home in the woods. "You look so at ease here, like you're in your element."

He chuckles, a deep, warm sound that sends shivers down my spine. "I suppose I am. The forest has always felt like home to me. There's a peace here that you can't find anywhere else."

I nod, understanding the sentiment. "I can see that. It's beautiful out here. Serene."

Ethan's gaze softens as he looks at me. "How about you? How did you become an investigative journalist?"

"I've always been curious," I reply, feeling a surge of passion as I talk about my work. "I like knowing things and finding answers. People deserve the truth, don't they? I guess you could say I'm a truth seeker more than anything else."

He studies me, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "I respect that. It takes a lot of courage to seek out the truth, especially when it's hidden in the shadows."

"Thank you," I say, feeling a warmth spread through me at his words. "It's not always easy, but it's worth it."

We stand there, the connection between us growing stronger with each passing moment. The air feels charged, as if the forest itself is aware of the secrets being exchanged. Ethan is fascinating, his rugged masculinity and mysterious allure drawing me in.

He's just like the calendar models of lumberjacks, but somehow better. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and strong hands. I wonder what else those hands could be good for. I've always thought of myself as level headed, but there's something about him that makes me feel... different.