"No way. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh," the kid jumped up, ruining the neat leaf pile.

"What's got you so worked up?" I asked, surprised. "Maybe she could help us find Frank and Glenn."

"Maybe you're right and the woman knows something," Oz shifted uncomfortably, choosing his words. "But Vance won't let you anywhere near her. He's explosive. And jealous."

"I'm not going there to propose marriage," I smirked.

"And Vance owns guns," Oscar reminded me. "Multiple ones. His ranch is huge too. Step foot on his property, and no one can protect you."

"You're actually scared," I observed, watching Oscar. "I'm not asking you to come. Just show me where it is."

"Your funeral," Oz muttered, staring at the lake for a long moment. "But remember – if you can't find common ground with Vance, I can't guarantee you'll walk away in one piece."

"Maybe we should've bought a bulletproof vest?" Oscar fretted nervously as we approached the ranch gates.

My foot sank into the damp earth with a careless step. A muddy puddle seeped through the clumps of clay and sand, mixing with the soil before splashing across the toe of my boot.

I lifted my foot with a grimace, producing a wet, sucking sound from the mire. A few dirty droplets flew off—one landing on the wooden sign nailed firmly to the ranch's handmade gates.

"Private Property. No Trespassing," the sign declared. Below it, someone had carved with a knife: "No, seriously—fuck off!"

"We can still turn back," the kid whispered, adjusting the saucepan he'd strapped to his head as a makeshift helmet before we left—a choice that had amused me the entire walk here.

"Oz, go home," I sighed. "I'll come back once I get what I need."

"I won't be able to sit still until you do. We go together."

"And if you're right about this farmer being unhinged?" I asked skeptically. "What if you get hurt?"

"If you get hurt, I’ll catch hell for it too. Grandpa didn’t give a return date, and I’m bored out of my mind alone."

Oscar adjusted his saucepan and hopped over the sturdy log fence.

"Why are we sneaking in like thieves?" I muttered, following him. "This is exactly how we get shot faster."

"Our goal is to reach the porch as quietly as possible," Oscar explained, veering off the well-worn tire tracks leading to the house. "With luck, he won’t be home, and his wife will let us in."

"Christ, this place is wrapped in horror stories," I muttered, shaking my head. "Does no one visit?"

"Did you read the sign?" the kid grumbled. "What 'guests'?"

"Got it. So, what about the grounds? Think there are landmines buried here?" I tried to lighten the mood, but Oscar didn't appreciate the joke and started carefully examining every bump in the ground.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

We both startled and turned to see a woman holding a woven vegetable basket, her amber-brown eyes drilling into us. Oscar instinctively raised his saucepan like a weapon.

"I doubt you came here for salt," the woman remarked, nodding at the kitchenware. "You don't strike me as culinary types."

"Apologies for our manners, ma'am," I recovered first. "We're looking for the wife of a man named Vance."

"Well, you've found her," she said, shifting the basket.

She was tall with refined features and a slender frame. She appeared about forty-five, but the wisdom in her slightly wrinkled eyes suggested she might be older. Her well-manicured hands held the basket with an elegance that seemed out of place on a farm – not a speck of dirt under her nails, while even we'd gotten filthy crossing half the property.