BLACK HOLLOW — POP. 2,847 — EST. 1853.

Dean killed the engine of the Impala and sat there for a long moment, engine ticking as it cooled. The town spread out before him like a postcard. White church steeples. Oak trees draping their branches over picket fences. A main street with a hardware store, a diner, and a library all sharing the same block.

Perfect.

He'd read the journal a hundred times on the drive down. The hunter's notes were careful, meticulous. Thirteen teenagers missing over two years. No bodies. No suspects. Just a single underlined sentence on the last page.

If something happens to me, find Dean Winchester. The girl in Black Hollow is his daughter.

Dean reached into the glovebox and pulled out a faded photograph. A woman he barely recognized—younger, softer, smiling in front of a different church. Evelyn Hartwell. And in her arms, a baby wrapped in a pink blanket.

Seventeen years old. You were seventeen years old.

He folded the photo and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the heavy, sweet-smelling air.