I stared through the front window at Mr. Foster.
For years, I had known him as the helpful retired officer who collected packages when neighbors traveled, watched children cross the street, and complained whenever someone parked too close to the fire hydrant.
Now Noah was pointing at him and telling me he had spoken to Mark about Rebecca.
And about a file that had disappeared fourteen years ago.
Officer Ramirez immediately moved closer to Noah.
“Are you sure that’s the man you saw?”
Noah nodded.
“I heard his voice.”
“When did you hear it?”
“At my house.”
My pulse jumped.
“Mr. Foster was inside your house?”
Noah shook his head.
“Garage.”
“What happened?”
“Daddy told me to go upstairs.”
“But you didn’t?”
Noah looked embarrassed.
“I wanted my truck.”
“What truck?”
“My red one.”
I remembered the toy Mark had dumped out of Noah’s backpack upstairs.
Noah continued.
“It was in the garage. I went to get it, and Daddy was talking to that man.”
Officer Ramirez crouched.
“What did you hear?”
Noah squeezed my hand.
“Daddy said, ‘Emily found Rebecca’s name.’”
Ramirez’s expression changed.
“And Mr. Foster?”
“He said, ‘Then you waited too long.’”
I felt the room tilt.
“What else?”
Noah concentrated.
“He said something about a file.”
“The file fourteen years ago?”
Noah nodded.
“And Daddy said, ‘You promised there was nothing left.’”
My skin prickled.
Ramirez stood.
“Stay here.”
She walked outside.
Another officer followed her.
I watched through the window as they approached Mr. Foster.
His smile disappeared.
Ramirez spoke to him calmly.
He answered.
Then shrugged.
Even from inside, I could see his posture change.
Defensive.
Annoyed.
But not frightened.
After several minutes, Ramirez came back.
“Mr. Foster says he never had that conversation.”
Of course he did.
“He says Noah is lying?”
“He says Noah may have misunderstood adult conversation.”
I looked at my nephew.
Noah’s eyes immediately filled.
“I didn’t lie.”
“I know.”
I knelt in front of him.
“You did exactly right.”
He whispered,
“He was mad at Daddy.”
“Who?”
“That man.”
“Mr. Foster?”
Noah nodded.
“What did he say?”
“He told Daddy, ‘I buried this once. I’m not doing it again.’”
My heart stopped.
Ramirez heard it too.
She immediately wrote it down.
“What does that mean?” Tyler asked.
Nobody answered.
Because I was beginning to understand enough to be terrified.
Something happened when Rebecca disappeared.
Mark had been involved.
Mr. Foster had known about it.
And Emily had uncovered whatever they thought had been erased.
Ramirez received a call on her radio.
She listened.
Then glanced toward me.
“What?”
She finished responding before answering.
“Detectives want the material from your sister’s folder transported as evidence.”

“And the storage unit?”
“They’re obtaining authorization to secure it.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
I exhaled.
“Good.”
But Ramirez’s expression didn’t relax.
“What is it?”
“Mark gave officers a different story.”
“What story?”
“He says your sister broke into his financial records and has been threatening to ruin him.”
I stared at her.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“He also says Emily disappeared voluntarily.”
“Then why did she call me terrified?”
“That matters.”
Ramirez hesitated.
“But we need to verify everything.”
I understood.
Evidence mattered.
Not fear.
Not instinct.
Not what I desperately wanted to believe.
But something inside me kept returning to one question.
Why would Mark be so desperate to find the envelope if Emily was simply angry and running away?
My phone buzzed.
A text message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO MARK.
My entire body went cold.
Ramirez saw my expression.
“What?”
I showed her.
She took the phone without touching the screen.
A second message arrived.
THE STORAGE UNIT IS EMPTY.
Ramirez immediately called someone.
I stared at the words.
“How would they know about the storage unit?”
Unless Emily’s call had been monitored.
Unless someone had already been watching us.
Then another message appeared.
ASK YOUR NEIGHBOR WHAT HAPPENED AT PINE RIDGE.
I looked outside.
Mr. Foster was no longer standing across the street.
“Where did he go?”
Ramirez turned.
“What?”
“Foster.”
The sidewalk was empty.
One officer hurried outside.
Another checked the side yard.
Thirty seconds later, Ramirez received another radio call.
“He left.”
“Left?”
“His car is gone.”
“He was standing in front of police.”
“Apparently he went inside his house through the rear entrance.”
“And nobody stopped him?”
“At that point, we didn’t have grounds to detain him.”
My frustration exploded.
“He’s involved.”
“We’re investigating that.”
“What is Pine Ridge?”
Ramirez looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
But I did know one thing.
The name felt familiar.
Not personally.
From somewhere else.
A road?
A park?
A hiking trail?
Then I remembered Rebecca’s missing-person flyer.
Her car had been found near a hiking area.
I rushed toward the basement.
“Sarah?”
Ramirez followed me.
I opened Emily’s red folder again.
The missing-person flyer was still inside its evidence sleeve.
I scanned every line.
Then I saw it.
REBECCA COLLINS’ VEHICLE WAS DISCOVERED NEAR THE PINE RIDGE TRAILHEAD.
“Oh my God.”
Ramirez read over my shoulder.
Pine Ridge.
The anonymous texter wanted me to ask Foster about the exact place Rebecca had vanished.
“Whoever sent this knows about the case,” Ramirez said.
“Or they were there.”
She didn’t respond.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was a photograph.
A grainy nighttime image.
A car parked near trees.
The timestamp in the corner read:
AUG 14 2010
11:48 PM
I zoomed in.
The image was poor quality.
But beside Rebecca’s car stood two men.
One was younger.
Thin.
Dark hair.
Mark.
The other was larger.
Older.
Wearing what looked like a police uniform.
I handed the phone to Ramirez.
Her face hardened.
“Can you identify him?”
I enlarged the image.
My stomach dropped.
Even fourteen years younger, there was no question.
“Foster.”
Ramirez immediately requested the photo be preserved.
Then another message arrived.
HE WASN’T RETIRED THAT NIGHT.
I looked at Ramirez.
“Was he working Rebecca’s case?”
“I can check.”
Five minutes later, we had an answer.
Officer Ramirez stood in my kitchen reading information from her phone.
“Robert Foster served with the county sheriff’s department until 2018.”
My heart pounded.
“Was he assigned to Rebecca?”
She looked at me.
“No.”
I frowned.
“Then why was he there?”
“He wasn’t listed on the case.”
That was worse.
A police officer who wasn’t assigned to the investigation had apparently been at the location where Rebecca’s car was found.
Late at night.
With Mark.
My mind raced.
“Could the photo be fake?”
“Yes.”
Ramirez didn’t sugarcoat it.
“We’ll have it examined.”
Another call came through.
This time from a detective named Collins.
Not related to Rebecca, as far as we knew.
He asked Ramirez to step away.
They spoke quietly.
When she returned, I knew something had happened.
“What?”
“The storage facility manager has been contacted.”
“And?”
“Unit 314 was opened tonight.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Approximately forty minutes ago.”
“By police?”
“No.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who?”
“They’re checking surveillance.”
“What about the laptop?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I felt panic rise.
Emily had risked everything to preserve evidence.
And someone may have reached it before we did.
Ramirez saw my face.
“We’re sending officers now.”
I shook my head.
“This is exactly what Emily warned me about.”
“We don’t know who accessed it.”
“What if they destroy everything?”
“Then we recover what we can.”
That answer did nothing to calm me.
Then Noah appeared in the doorway.
He had been sitting with Tyler in the living room.
“Aunt Sarah?”
“Yes?”
“Mommy hid another thing.”
The room became silent.
“What?”
He looked toward the basement.
“Not here.”
“Where?”
He hesitated.
Then whispered,
“At Grandma’s.”
My mother.
“What did she hide?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did she tell you?”
“The same night she gave me the blue envelope.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Noah squeezed his fingers together.
“She said if the computer was gone, Grandma had the copy.”
I stared at him.
“A copy of what?”
He looked frightened again.
“The video.”
Rebecca’s video.
Emily had created a backup.
And apparently my mother had it.
I immediately grabbed my phone.
Mom was still on her Alaskan cruise.
I called.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
Mom had given me the itinerary before she left.
Hotel.
Cruise ship.
Excursions.
Emergency contact numbers.
I searched my email until I found it.
Her ship was scheduled to arrive in Juneau that morning.
She might have service soon.
I sent one message.
MOM. EMERGENCY. CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT TELL ANYONE WHERE YOU KEEP EMILY’S PACKAGE.
Then I stared at the message.
Package.
Maybe that was too obvious.
Maybe someone already had access to our messages.
I deleted it before it sent.
Too late.
Delivered.
My stomach dropped.
“Sarah?” Ramirez said.
“I think I just made a mistake.”
I explained.
She sighed.
“Don’t panic.”
My phone rang almost immediately.
MOM.
I answered.
“Mom?”
“Sarah, what on earth is happening?”
Relief nearly knocked me over.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“In my cabin. Why?”
I looked at Ramirez.
She nodded for me to continue.
“Did Emily give you anything before your trip?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
More silence.
Then,
“How do you know about that?”
My heart started racing.
“What did she give you?”
“A package.”
“What kind?”
“A small metal case.”
“Where is it?”
Another pause.
“At my house.”
“Where?”
“Sarah, what is going on?”
“Please.”
Mom lowered her voice.
“In the attic.”
My pulse jumped.
“Is your house locked?”
“Of course.”
“Does anyone have a key?”
“The usual people.”
“Who?”
“You. Emily.”
Then she hesitated.
“And Mark.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Years earlier, Mom had given both of us emergency keys.
“Mom, listen to me carefully. Mark is in police custody right now.”
“What?”
“Do not call him.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll explain later. Where exactly is the case?”
“Behind your father’s old Christmas decorations.”
“Is there anything written on it?”
“No.”
“Did Emily tell you what was inside?”
“She said family documents.”
I looked at Noah.
Maybe Emily had been protecting everyone by lying to them individually.
Before I could ask anything else, Mom suddenly went quiet.
“What?”
“Sarah…”
“What is it?”
“I just remembered something.”
My grip tightened.
“Tell me.”
“Emily came to my house twice.”
“Twice?”
“The second time was right before I left for the cruise.”
“What did she do?”
“She looked terrified.”
Mom’s voice shook.
“She asked me a strange question.”
“What question?”
“She asked whether I remembered Mark’s accident.”
I frowned.
“What accident?”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
Mom continued.
“Emily said Mark had been in a serious accident years before they met.”
“I’ve never heard about that.”
“Neither had I.”
“What did she say?”
“She said he spent three weeks in the hospital.”
“When?”
Mom paused.
“August 2010.”
The month Rebecca disappeared.
My blood turned cold.
“What happened to him?”
“She didn’t know. That was why she was looking.”
Then Mom said something even stranger.
“She told me the hospital had no record of him.”
I looked at Ramirez.
“No record?”
“That’s what Emily said.”
My phone vibrated while Mom was still talking.
Another unknown text.
I opened it.
A photograph.
This one wasn’t fourteen years old.
It was taken recently.
Very recently.
My mother’s house.
Front door visible.
Timestamp:
8:42 PM
TONIGHT.
Someone was standing on her porch.
Holding a flashlight.
I zoomed in.
A man.
Dark jacket.
Baseball cap.
Face partially hidden.
Then the next message arrived.
YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE LOOKING FOR THE COPY.
“Mom.”
My voice came out sharp.
“What?”
“Is anyone staying at your house?”
“No.”
“Anyone watching it?”
“My neighbor feeds the cat.”
“What neighbor?”
“Janet.”
I looked at Ramirez.
“We need someone at my mother’s house.”
Ramirez was already calling it in.
Mom began panicking.
“What’s happening?”
“Mom, stay where you are. Do not return home.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Do not tell anyone about the metal case.”
“All right.”
“And call me if anyone contacts you.”
“I will.”
We ended the call.
Minutes later, officers were dispatched to Mom’s property.
Every second stretched.
Then the call finally came.
Ramirez listened.
Her face changed.
“What?”
She lowered the radio.
“The front door is open.”
My stomach dropped.
“Was the house broken into?”
“They’re checking.”
Another update arrived.
No forced entry.
Someone had used a key.
Exactly like Mark had at my house.
I knew what the next question would be before Ramirez asked.
“Who else has a key besides Mark?”
I thought carefully.
Emily.
Me.
Mom.
And one more person.
Someone who had helped Mom after Dad died.
Someone who checked her furnace.
Carried groceries when her knee hurt.
Watered her plants.
Someone she trusted because he had once worn a badge.
Mr. Foster.
I whispered his name.
Ramirez stared at me.
“Foster has a key?”
“My mother gave him one years ago.”
Suddenly every good deed he had ever done looked different.
Not kindness.
Access.
The radio crackled.
Officer on scene.
Ramirez answered.
Then listened.
“What is it?”
She turned toward me slowly.
“They found the attic.”
I held my breath.
“And the metal case?”
“Gone.”
My knees weakened.
We were too late.
But then Ramirez raised one finger.
The officer was still speaking.
Her expression changed.
“They found something else.”
“What?”
She listened.
Then looked directly at Noah.
“A note.”
My heart jumped.
“What does it say?”
Ramirez repeated it.
Three handwritten words.
FOLLOW THE NUMBERS.
Noah suddenly gasped.
“I know that.”
Everyone looked at him.
“What numbers?”
He ran upstairs.
I followed.
He hurried into the guest room where Mark had emptied his backpack.
Clothes and toys still covered the bed.
Noah picked up his red toy truck.
The same truck he had returned to the garage for the night he overheard Mark and Foster.
He turned it upside down.
There were numbers written beneath it in black marker.
3 — 17 — 8 — 26.
“What are those?”
Noah shook his head.
“Mommy wrote them.”
“When?”
“Before Daddy brought me here.”
My heart pounded.
Ramirez photographed the numbers.
Then I noticed something else.
One wheel on the truck was loose.
I touched it.
The plastic wheel came off.
Something tiny fell onto the bed.
A memory card.
Smaller than my fingernail.
Noah whispered,
“Mommy said Daddy never checks my toys.”
I stared at the card.
Emily had hidden evidence everywhere.
The envelope.
The lockbox.
The storage unit.
Mom’s attic.
And now inside her son’s toy.
Ramirez placed the memory card into an evidence bag.
“We need forensic technicians to examine this.”
I nodded.
But Noah was staring at the four numbers again.
“What?”
I asked.
He whispered,
“Mommy made me remember something.”
“What?”
“She said three means March.”
“Okay.”
“Seventeen means day.”
March 17.
“And eight?”
He looked confused.
“I don’t remember.”
Then Tyler spoke.
“Maybe eight means a year.”
We all looked at him.
“Like 2008?”
Possible.
But the last number was 26.
Then something clicked in my head.
3.
17.
8.
26.
Could be coordinates.
Could be locker numbers.
Could be pages.
Could be dates.
Then I remembered Emily’s letter.
Passwords.
Files.
Evidence.
Maybe they weren’t meant to be read separately.
Maybe they were directions.
Officer Ramirez’s phone rang.
She answered.
Her expression immediately hardened.
“What happened?”
She listened.
Then walked toward the window.
“Understood.”
When she ended the call, I felt fear before she spoke.
“What?”
“Mark is gone.”
I stared at her.
“What do you mean gone?”
“He was being transported.”
“And?”
“The patrol vehicle was struck at an intersection.”
“An accident?”
“That’s what it looked like initially.”
My heart pounded.
“Where’s Mark?”
“When officers regained control of the scene, the rear door was open.”
“That’s impossible.”
Ramirez didn’t answer.
“Handcuffed prisoners don’t just open police cars.”
“I know.”
“Unless someone helps them.”
Her silence said enough.
Emily had warned me.
The police can’t all be trusted.
Then my phone buzzed.
One final message.
No number displayed this time.
Just four words.
HE IS COMING BACK.
I looked toward the dark window.
Across the street, Mr. Foster’s house remained completely dark.
Mark was somewhere out there.
Foster was gone.
And we were standing inside the one house where Emily’s final hidden memory card had just been discovered.
Then Noah grabbed my hand.
“Aunt Sarah.”
“What?”
His face went pale.
He pointed toward the driveway.
A black sedan had just turned slowly onto our street.

PART 5 — THE BLACK SEDAN RETURNS

The black sedan rolled slowly past our house.
Nobody inside the living room moved.
Noah’s fingers dug into my hand.
Tyler stood behind me, breathing so quietly I could barely hear him.
Officer Ramirez stepped toward the window.
“Everybody away from the glass.”
We moved back.
The sedan kept going.
For one second, I thought maybe it wasn’t stopping.
Then the brake lights glowed red.
The car stopped three houses down.
My pulse started pounding.
Ramirez spoke into her radio.
“Possible suspect vehicle on Cedar Lane. Black sedan. Request immediate units.”
Noah whispered,
“That’s Daddy’s car.”
I looked at him.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“He has two.”
“Two?”
“One normal car.”
He pointed toward the street.
“And that one.”
My stomach tightened.
Of course.
The same black sedan Mr. Foster had warned me about.
The same car Mark had used to bring Noah here.
Maybe Foster hadn’t been warning me at all.
Maybe he had been checking whether I had noticed it.
The sedan’s driver-side door opened.
A man stepped out.
Baseball cap.
Dark jacket.
Same build as the person photographed outside Mom’s house.
Ramirez raised her flashlight toward the window but didn’t turn it on.
“Can you identify him?”
I stared.
Too dark.
Too far.
Then the man lifted his head.
Porch light from a nearby house hit his face.
My heart stopped.
Mark.
“Noah, don’t look.”
Too late.
“Daddy.”
Mark crossed the street.
No rush.
No hesitation.
Like a man coming home after work.
Two officers moved toward the front entrance.
Ramirez stopped them.
“Wait.”
One officer whispered,
“Why?”
“Something’s wrong.”
Mark wasn’t looking at my house.
He was looking toward Mr. Foster’s.
Then Foster’s porch light blinked once.
Off.
On.
Off.
A signal.
Mark changed direction.
Instead of approaching us, he walked toward Foster’s backyard.
Ramirez immediately spoke into her radio.
“Suspect moving toward 214 Cedar Lane.”
The officers slipped outside.
I pulled the boys deeper into the house.
Then Mark disappeared between the homes.
Thirty seconds passed.
Nothing.
Then shouting.
“POLICE! STOP!”
A crashing sound came from outside.
Another shout.
Then silence.
Tyler grabbed my arm.
“Did they catch him?”
“I don’t know.”
Ramirez’s radio erupted with voices.
One officer yelled,
“Rear fence! He’s moving east!”
Another:
“Second suspect!”
Ramirez’s expression hardened.
“Foster.”
I stared at her.
“Both of them are out there?”
“It sounds like it.”
Suddenly a loud bang came from the basement.
Noah screamed.
Every officer in the room turned.
Another bang.
From downstairs.
Not outside.
Inside my house.
Ramirez drew her weapon.
“Stay here.”
She and another officer moved toward the basement door.
I grabbed Tyler and Noah.
The basement was supposed to be empty.
We had all been upstairs.
Unless somebody entered through the small side window.
Unless someone had been waiting down there the entire time.
Ramirez opened the door.
“Police! Show yourself!”
No answer.
She descended.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Then,
“Clear.”
I exhaled.
But she didn’t come back.
A few seconds later she called,
“Sarah.”
Something in her voice made me afraid.
I walked toward the doorway.
“Stay behind me,” the other officer said.
We went down together.
Ramirez stood near Dad’s old workbench.
The basement window above it was broken.
Glass covered the floor.
But nobody was inside.
“Someone threw something through the window,” Ramirez said.
She pointed.
A small brick lay on the floor.
Rubber bands held a folded note around it.
The officer carefully removed the paper.
Ramirez read it.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
She handed it over.
ONE COPY ISN’T ENOUGH.
YOU HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT.
I stared at the words.
“Midnight for what?”
No answer.
Then Noah spoke behind me.
“You weren’t supposed to find that yet.”
I turned so quickly I nearly dropped the note.
“What?”
His face looked terrified.
“Noah, what do you mean?”
He pointed toward the memory card still sealed in the evidence bag upstairs.
“Mommy said if they knew about the little card, we had to leave.”
Ramirez crouched.
“Who are ‘they’?”
Noah shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“What exactly did your mother say?”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“She said, ‘If they come for the copies, Sarah has to take you to the place with the red door.’”
My heart raced.
“What red door?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I don’t know!”
He started crying.
I pulled him against me.
“It’s okay.”
But I was thinking.
Red door.
Emily and I had grown up in the same town.
Our parents’ house had been white.
Grandma’s was brown.
The old family cabin was green.
Then I remembered.
Dad’s workshop.
Not the basement workbench.
His actual workshop.
Twenty miles outside town.
An old detached building near Lake Mason.
Dad had painted the door bright red because he said hunters could see it from the road in winter.
I looked at Ramirez.
“I know the place.”
She immediately shook her head.
“You are not going anywhere alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“What is it?”
“My father owned a workshop near Lake Mason.”
“Does Mark know about it?”
“Maybe.”
“Foster?”
My stomach dropped.
“Yes.”
Dad used to invite Foster fishing.
Of course he knew.
Then Ramirez’s radio crackled.
“Suspect detained.”
My heart jumped.
“Mark?”
She listened.
Her face fell.
“No.”
“Foster?”
“No.”
One of the officers had caught someone running from Foster’s backyard.
A stranger.
Male.
Mid-thirties.
No identification.
No Mark.
No Foster.
The man refused to speak.
But inside his jacket they found something.
A key ring.
One key opened Foster’s back door.
Another had a label.
314.
My breath stopped.
“The storage unit,” I whispered.
Ramirez nodded.
Then her radio crackled again.
This time the storage facility.
Officers had arrived.
Unit 314 was open.
The lock had been cut.
The shelves were mostly empty.
The laptop was gone.
I closed my eyes.
Emily’s warning had been right.
But then the officer on the radio added something else.
“They found a recorder.”
I looked up.
“What kind?”
“Small digital recorder taped under a shelf.”
Someone had missed it.
Maybe Emily had planned that.
Maybe Rebecca had.
Ramirez asked whether it still worked.
A pause.
“Yes.”
“What’s on it?”
“They’re checking.”
Minutes later, the detective at the unit called directly.
Ramirez placed the phone on speaker.
A woman’s voice filled the basement.
Soft.
Nervous.
Recorded years earlier.
“My name is Rebecca Collins.”
Every person in the room froze.
“If someone finds this, I need you to understand that I am not running away.”
My skin prickled.
Rebecca continued.
“Mark told people I was unstable. That I wanted to leave. That isn’t true.”
Noah clung to me.
The recording crackled.
“I found documents showing Mark was stealing money through accounts connected to my name.”
I thought about Emily’s bank statements.
Same pattern.
Same man.
Rebecca’s voice shook.
“I confronted him tonight.”
A long silence followed.
Then she whispered,
“He told me nobody would believe me because his friend in the department could make reports disappear.”
I looked at Ramirez.
Foster.
The recording continued.
“If anything happens to me, look at Robert Foster.”
Nobody moved.
Rebecca had said it herself.
Fourteen years earlier.
Then came a sound on the recording.
A door opening.
Rebecca whispered,
“He’s here.”
Footsteps.
A man’s voice.
Distant.
Angry.
Then another voice.
Older.
Calmer.
I recognized it immediately.
Mr. Foster.
Rebecca said,
“Why is he here?”
Mark answered,
“To help.”
The recording erupted with movement.
Furniture scraping.
Rebecca shouted.
Then the audio cut.
Silence.
The detective spoke again over the phone.
“That’s the end.”
My hands were shaking.
There it was.
Not proof of everything.
But enough to show Emily hadn’t imagined the connection.
Enough to explain why Mark wanted the storage unit.
Enough to make Foster dangerous.
Ramirez immediately ordered both men treated as high-priority suspects.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Nobody spoke.
Ramirez nodded.
I answered on speaker.
“Hello?”
A woman whispered,
“Sarah.”
Emily.
My knees weakened.
“Emily?”
“Do you have Noah?”
“Yes.”
“Are you safe?”
“For the moment.”
She breathed shakily.
“You found Rebecca’s recording.”
It wasn’t a question.
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re panicking.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Emily, please.”
“If I tell you, they’ll find me.”
I swallowed.
“Who are they?”
She hesitated.
“Mark and Foster are only part of it.”
My blood went cold.
“How many people?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Take Noah to Dad’s workshop.”
My breath caught.
“The red door.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“There’s something under the floor.”
“What?”
“The original evidence.”
“What original evidence?”
“The thing Rebecca hid before she disappeared.”
I looked at Ramirez.
She was already signaling to dispatch.
Emily suddenly whispered,
“Sarah…”
“What?”
“If the red door is already open when you get there, do not go inside.”
“Why?”
“Because that means they got there first.”
A loud noise sounded on Emily’s end.
She gasped.
“Emily?”
“Go now.”
“Emily, where are you?”
Then she said something I never expected.
“I’m closer than you think.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Officer Ramirez immediately started organizing units for Lake Mason.
Then one of the officers upstairs shouted,
“Ramirez!”
We ran up.
The front door was still locked.
But something had been pushed underneath it.
A photograph.
I picked it up carefully.
It showed Dad’s old workshop.
Taken at night.
The red door was visible.
Wide open.
And standing inside the doorway was Mr. Foster.
Beside him was Mark.
Between them stood a woman with her hands tied.
Emily.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
MIDNIGHT.
BRING THE MEMORY CARD.
OR SHE DOESN’T LEAVE.