Chapter 7 - The Missing ChildI refused to believe it.
No mother should have to hear those words.
The officer tried to calm me.
“We have no proof Meadow was taken.”
“That boot was hers.”
“Yes.”
“Then find him.”
“We're trying.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“Trying is what people say when they haven't decided how serious this is.”
The room went silent.
“I know Dennis.”
I pointed at the security camera.
“He plans everything.”
I pointed at Serena.
“He has help.”
I pointed at the files.
“He has records.”
Then I pointed at Meadow.
“And he has one reason to believe he can still control me.”
My daughter watched me.
She was trembling.
I sat beside her.
“Baby.”
“Mom?”
“Did Dad ever take you somewhere strange?”
She thought.
Then nodded.
“Sometimes.”
“Where?”
“He said it was a secret.”
“Tell me.”
Meadow looked at General Pickles.
“There was a house.”
“What house?”
“Not ours.”
“Where?”
“By the trees.”
“What trees?”
She whispered:
“The dead ones.”
I had no idea.
Serena did.
She suddenly looked sick.
“The old orchard.”
“What?”
“Behind Hawthorne Farm.”
We drove there with police escort.
The orchard hadn't been used in years.
Most trees were dead.
Branches clawed at the sky.
There was an abandoned cottage in the center.
Meadow had described it perfectly.
The door was unlocked.
Inside was dust.
A mattress.
A table.
A child's drawing taped to the wall.
My daughter's handwriting.
My heart stopped.
The drawing showed our family.
Meadow.
Me.
Dennis.
Serena.
But there was a fifth person.
A woman with black hair.
The face was crossed out.
On the table sat a glass of whiskey.
Still warm.
Someone had been there recently.
The officer searched the rooms.
Nothing.
Then I heard a clicking sound.
I looked down.
A small device was taped beneath the table.
A speaker.
A recording started.
Dennis’s voice.
“Tori.”
My skin prickled.
“If you're hearing this, you've reached the place where I brought Meadow when I needed her to understand something.”
I clenched my jaw.
“She is alive.”
The officer looked at me.
“But you need to understand one thing.”
The recording paused.
“I never wanted to hurt her.”
I nearly laughed.
“You threw a seven-year-old down stairs.”
The recording continued.
“She saw something she wasn't supposed to see.”
Then another voice.
A man's voice.
Older.
“Did she see the ledger?”
Dennis answered.
“No.”
The man replied:
“Then we're still safe.”
My heart pounded.
The recording suddenly changed.
Meadow’s voice.
“Daddy, who is he?”
Dennis answered:
“A friend.”
The unknown man laughed.
“Children should never ask questions.”
Then Meadow screamed.
The recording cut off.
The room erupted.
“Find the source!”
Officers searched the walls.
Then the device beeped.
A map appeared on its tiny screen.
Coordinates.
I recognized them.
Military property.
The old training grounds.
Exactly where Serena had said Dennis kept the records.
The officer looked at me.
“Do you know the location?”
“Yes.”
“Then you're coming with us.”
“No.”
He stared.
“Mrs. Hawthorne…”
“You need someone who knows the ground.”
He wanted to argue.
Then he saw my expression.
I had already made my decision.
We drove north.
The facility sat behind an old chain-link fence.
I remembered it immediately.
The watchtower.
The storage sheds.
The underground tunnels.
The training bunker.
The place had been abandoned.
But there were tire tracks in the mud.
Fresh ones.
We moved carefully.
Then we found the first body.
Not dead.
Unconscious.
A security guard.
His hands tied behind his back.
Beside him was a note.
TOO LATE.
I heard a noise behind me.
A gunshot cracked through the trees.
Everyone dropped.
Then another.
The officer shouted for cover.
I crawled toward the bunker entrance.
Inside, it was dark.
My flashlight swept over the wall.
Names.
Dozens of names.
Farmers.
Families.
Witnesses.
And at the very bottom was one name I had never expected to see.
VICTORIA HAWTHORNE.
May you like
Next to it was a date.
Tomorrow.
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