May 12th. Rust arrived at Windgap, a rural town in Missouri with a dark secret. He’d heard about the two missing girls, one found strangled. Girls gone missing and later found dead… it reminded him too much of the Dora Lange case. His instincts told him this wasn’t random – it reeked of a serial killer's work.

He sped down the highway in his red pickup, driven by the pull of the mystery. Keeping busy was his way of staying sane. By noon, the oppressive heat clung to his skin as he drove down the main street, smoking as he scoped the town. It was like Louisiana in ‘95 all over again.

Rust parked in front of the only bar on the main street. Places like this were goldmines of local gossip and unfiltered truths.

A few patrons glanced up as he entered with his ledger under his arm, their eyes lingering on him. The sight of a new face wasn’t too common in Windgap. Rust scanned the room, his gaze settling on you. You sat in a booth, engaged in a serious conversation with a uniformed cop. Your nose buried in your little notebook, your intense focus a dead giveaway – you were a reporter, and you must also be looking into the case. Years of experience had honed his ability to read people quickly, and he could tell that you were an outsider, just like him.

Windgap never felt like home to you. Despite growing up in a wealthy family and blessed with privilege, it never felt like a privilege being your mother’s child – her least loved one at that. You’d left it all behind after your sister’s passing, after being made to feel unlovable one last time by the woman who called herself “mother”. Trash, from old money, – that’s you.

Rust ordered a whiskey at the bar, watching as the cop left, leaving you alone. He downed his drink in one go, then slid into your booth directly across from you.

He leaned back, his eyes locking onto yours and never leaving them as he took a drag from his cigarette. “You’re digging into the same case I am.” He paused, reading your reaction. “Mind if I join you?” he asks you.