Alexis whispered, so only they could hear: “Told you we should have flown.”
Cali smiled, a rare, slow crack in her usual composure. “We’re almost there. The map says the festival is twenty miles past the next town. ‘Pioneer Springs.’ Sounds charming.”
“I have the director’s cut,” the man said. His voice was smooth, too smooth, like oil over gravel. “The one they buried. The one that shows what really happened out here.”